


The Three Students

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Academic Sherlock, Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Classical Music, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Screenplay/Script Format, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's Violin, Unilock, casefic, extra episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A piece of canon-compliant backstory from Sherlock's university years. Sherlock gets kicked out of his student orchestra, solves a case and learns a lesson about the value of friendship. Drama, Friendship, Angst and Classical Music.</p><p>Rated M for referenced/implied adult themes.<br/>Gen; no pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2014 on the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum, to Silverblaze’s prompt of „Christmas, snow, cosiness, Holmes brothers, violin“. Silverblaze ([silverblazehorse](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/silverblazehorse/profile)) also said that she likes casefic, that she prefers friendship to romance, and that her favourite character is Mycroft. 
> 
> The story starts during the winter of „A Scandal in Belgravia“. 
> 
> As this is a story about music, listen to the pieces they play, if you like. There are several versions of both on Youtube. A musical term that I think needs explaining is a „sectional“ – that’s the sort of rehearsal where the members of the same instrument group of an orchestra (such as, only the violins) practise their parts together without their conductor, in preparation for the full rehearsal.

**_Baker Street, London, outside No. 221B._ ** _A late afternoon in December, just greying into dusk. Thick wet snow is falling, the kind that immediately turns into muddy slush on the streets. There are few people about. All pedestrians passing by on the sidewalks either carry umbrellas or have the hoods of their coats or jackets up. Nobody lingers. The cars in the road forge ahead through the gloom with their headlights on, water spraying from their tyres. A large black car approaches, pulls over and comes to a halt at the kerb just outside No. 221B. The rear door opens, and Mycroft Holmes gets out, in a winter coat but bareheaded. He closes the car door, glances up at the lit first floor windows of No. 221B, hurries over to the front door and rings the bell. His hair is wet and his shoulders are dark with moisture by the time the door – only moments later - opens to admit him._

 **_Inside No. 221B. A view of the staircase._ ** _We see Mycroft walking up the stairs, head down, rather more slowly than usual, and approach the open door of Sherlock and John's living room. John's voice floats out towards him._

JOHN _(off-screen)_ : It's not working, Sherlock! I need that extension cord!

SHERLOCK _(off-screen, from further away, probably somewhere in the kitchen):_ And I told you there was one in the cupboard under the sink, but it's gone now!

 _There is a bang and a clattering sound of something being dropped or knocked over, and a muted curse. Mycroft hesitates and grimaces, then steps into the living room, knocking on the jamb as he passes through_. _No reply. The room is bathed in cosy golden light from the reading lamps by the fireplace, but seems to be deserted. It has also subtly changed its appearance from what we usually see. There is a garland of fake pine branches and – as yet unlit - fairy lights around the mirror above the fireplace, and red Christmas baubles sit here and there on tables and shelves. We follow Mycroft's disbelieving eyes as they travel across the room, fixing for a moment on a ridiculous miniature figurine of a grinning reindeer on the side table next to John's armchair. By the time his eyes reach the opposite corner with Sherlock's chair, something seems to be stirring there, and a moment later John's back – clad in a nondescript navy blue cardigan - rises into view from behind the chair. He straightens up with a groan and turns round, another string of – also unlit – fairy lights in his hands, the plug dangling from one end._

JOHN _(impatiently)_ : Got it? _(He notices Mycroft standing just inside the open door.)_ Oh. Hello.

_Mycroft seems frozen to the spot, his face a study in bewilderment. Sherlock, in his customary dark suit, chooses this moment to come walking out of the kitchen, a rolled-up electric cable in his hand and a look of triumph on his face._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Got it. _(To Mycroft)_ And you can help hang up the mistletoe, while you're here.

_A range of expressions passes across Mycroft's face, from intense indignation via a kind of exasperated resignation to simple exhaustion. He does look rather the worse for wear with his wet coat and hair, and his face is a bit drawn and grey, too, dark shadows under his eyes._

SHERLOCK: Well, don't just stand there dripping on the carpet. It's going to moulder and stink and Mrs Hudson's going to put a huge dry-cleaning bill on my rent.

_John weaves out of his corner, looking Mycroft up and down enquiringly._

JOHN: Have you lost your umbrella?

MYCROFT _(distractedly):_ I must have left it at the office.

_Sherlock snorts, but John is now regarding Mycroft with an expression of only half-mocking concern._

JOHN _(after a moment, in a kindly tone):_ Well, come on in. Sit down for a minute. Let me take your coat.

MYCROFT _(sincerely):_ Thank you, John.

_He unbuttons his coat and begins to take it off. John approaches to relieve him of it. Sherlock gives John an appalled look and moves forward as if to physically stop him being nice to Mycroft._

SHERLOCK: What? No! What are you doing?

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock, recovering his spirits):_ I believe it's called hospitality. A variant of common decency. Look it up, one of these days. It's supposed to be one of the principal themes of the season.

_He smiles sourly at his brother, then gratefully hands his coat and paisley scarf over to John, who proceeds to hang both on the hook at the back of the living room door and then invites Mycroft with a gesture of his hand to sit down in his own armchair. Mycroft accepts the offer with a polite nod and sits down, unable to suppress a sigh. John, noticing this, walks over into the kitchen. Sherlock, who is glaring at both of them alternately, is being ignored._

JOHN _(over his shoulder):_ Tea, or something stronger?

MYCROFT _(a little haphazardly):_ Yes, thank you, that would be most welcome.

_Sherlock grimaces at his brother in mock-amazement._

SHERLOCK: I'd say you were seriously overworked, if I weren't talking to a civil servant. _  
_

MYCROFT _(already almost back to his usual self)_ : And I'd say _you're_ seriously underworked. _(He gestures around the room.)_ Doctor Watson's blog falls silent for close on three months, and then I catch you at putting up Christmas decorations, of all things.

JOHN _(walking back out of the kitchen with a tumbler of whisky in either hand):_ Well, we _have_ done other things since my last post.

MYCROFT: I'm relieved to hear it.

_John hands one of the glasses to Mycroft, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. Sherlock, by tacit consent of all those present, isn't offered any, and doesn’t complain._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft)_ : Well, last time you were here, you made quite a point of telling me _not_ to work on a certain case. This has to be the first time ever that you're telling me off for actually doing what you want.

MYCROFT _(smiling urbanely):_ And are you?

SHERLOCK: Have you seen any evidence to the contrary?

MYCROFT: No. _(His smile assumes a slightly disquieting, ominous quality.)_ Make sure it stays that way. _(Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to reply. Mycroft points a commanding finger at him.)_ Oh, no no no. You be a good little boy, or you won't get your Christmas present. _  
_

SHERLOCK _(in a flat tone, feigning indifference)_ : What present?

MYCROFT: You didn't think I came here just to dry my coat and deplete your flatmate's supply of scotch, did you? _(He looks up at John and raises his glass to him. In a different tone, approvingly)_ Which is excellent, by the way.

_John nods in acknowledgment. Mycroft digs into the inner pocket of his jacket, fishes out a memory stick and holds it up._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ Just something to cheer you up and keep you occupied over the holidays.

SHERLOCK: What is it?

MYCROFT: A little puzzle.

SHERLOCK: And how many tens of thousands of lives depend on me solving it before Big Ben strikes the next quarter?

MYCROFT: None at all. It's a mental exercise, nothing more.

SHERLOCK: Not interested.

_He walks over to his own armchair and flops down in it. John remains standing where he is, next to his own chair, his glass in his hand. His eyes travel back and forth between the two brothers, as yet undecided between amusement and annoyance._

MYCROFT _(holding the memory stick out to Sherlock)_ : You'll like it. Have a look. It's the latest little brainwave from our cryptography department. Just a small sample. We've been looking to renew some of our non-digital communication modes for a while now, but so far nothing has proved satisfactory. When they turned up with this, I thought it worth running it by you.

SHERLOCK: _You_ did?

MYCROFT: Yes.

SHERLOCK: Why me?

MYCROFT _(smoothly)_ : Because I’d like to be able to tell them that it is unbreakable.

SHERLOCK: There is no such thing as an unbreakable code.

MYCROFT: See, I knew you'd like it.

_Sherlock smiles humourlessly. After a moment's pause, he crosses his arms._

SHERLOCK: Alright. Where's the catch?

_Mycroft leans back in his chair with a slightly exaggerated sigh._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ There's always a catch, with him.

_The expression on John’s face visibly tilts towards annoyance._

MYCROFT _(sarcastically):_ Yes, of course there’s a catch. The moment you insert this into your computer, it will blow up the entire building, leaving nothing but a fifty foot crater on Baker Street as a monument to your gullibility, and as a warning to future generations.

_Sherlock's lips distort in a sneer. John, deciding that he has had quite enough of this, comes to life and walks across the room to the dining table. There is a small stack of unopened letters on it. He puts down his glass, picks up the envelope on top, rummages through the clutter on the table for the paper knife, finds it, slits open the envelope and takes out a Christmas card. He reads it and smiles. He then picks up all the rest and carries them and the paper knife over to the fireplace. The Holmes brothers in their chairs are still engaged in a staring contest, both of them emanating resentment in equal measure. John walks between them, deliberately breaking their eye contact, puts his stack of mail onto a corner of the mantelpiece and sets the first card up in display, straightening it carefully._

JOHN _(conversationally)_ : You do realise you're being ever so slightly ridiculous, don't you?

_No reaction. John slits open the second envelope, takes out the card – a colourful, perfectly harmless-looking winter wonderland landscape – and flips it open. A photograph falls out of it onto the floor. In close-up on the card, we – and John - read a pre-printed “Season's Greetings” message, and below it, in handwriting:_

Dear Sherlock, I hope you're as happy as I am. Best wishes, Violet x

_John looks up, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he turns on his heel towards his flatmate.  Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him._

JOHN _(stammering in embarrassment):_ I – I – I think I just - _(He blushes furiously.)_ Sorry, I – I didn't mean – Mrs Hudson must've put it - and I didn't look -

_He trails off and holds out the card to Sherlock, looking apologetic. Sherlock, unruffled, takes it, reads it, and shrugs. Meanwhile, Mycroft has picked up the photograph from the carpet and is studying it with interest._

MYCROFT: Violet Westbury sends you a _Christmas card_?

SHERLOCK: It would seem so.

_He puts the card down on the arm of his chair, the case closed as far as he is concerned. John looks both relieved and intrigued.  
_

JOHN _(tentatively, his eyes moving from Sherlock to Mycroft and back):_ So – who is Violet Westbury?

SHERLOCK _(in a bored voice)_ : Violet Westbury's a part-time music teacher at a comprehensive school in her native Newcastle, and a mother of two lovely little children.

MYCROFT _(handing Sherlock the photograph):_ Three now, apparently.

_In close-up, the photograph shows a smiling woman of roughly Sherlock's own age, with a round, soft face and her blonde hair done up in a ponytail, sitting on a sofa with a baby on her lap and a boy and a girl of primary school age snuggled up comfortably against her on either side. All three children wear silly red Father Christmas hats, and all four people in the picture are beaming with festive spirit, perfect harmony and radiant happiness._

JOHN _(on the verge of a smirk):_ Seriously, now.

SHERLOCK: Yes, seriously. _(He looks down pensively at the photograph.)_ I do admire her.

JOHN _(bewildered):_ Why in the name of heaven would you admire a part-time music teacher from a Newcastle comprehensive with three young children?

SHERLOCK: For knowing her limits. _(He raises his head to meet John's eyes.)_ It's a rare quality, but useful on occasion. _(He glances at Mycroft, who gives an unconvinced shrug, then hands John the photograph and the card.)_ Put it up with the others, if you like.

_John automatically takes them, still puzzled. Mycroft, seeing his expression, swirls the contents of his glass, then takes another sip of his drink._

MYCROFT: Why don't you tell him the whole story, Sherlock? It would make a nice little addition to the collection on John's blog, don't you think? I'm sure the general public are desperately hungry for a new instalment, after such a long pause. Especially one with a bit of _human touch_. _(He forces out the final two words with a grimace of distaste.)_

JOHN: Hang on. Violet Westbury was a _case?_

_Mycroft and Sherlock, for once in accord, look at him with exactly identical expressions of impatient condescension._

SHERLOCK: Of course she was.

MYCROFT _(simultaneously)_ : What did you think?

JOHN _(slightly sheepishly):_ I – oh, never mind. Well – _(clearing his throat)_ – yeah, why not? A – a case with a human touch, yeah. _(He smiles.)_ I'm all ears. _(He walks back to the dining table to pick up his glass and get a chair for himself. He returns with both, sits down and looks expectantly at Sherlock, who doesn't react._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock)_ : Come on. Doctor Watson is well known for his tact and reticence. And I already know it all, anyway.

SHERLOCK: I doubt that. It's not like you were there.

MYCROFT: It was I who provided the central piece of the puzzle, if I remember correctly.

_Sherlock still refuses to speak._

MYCROFT _(maliciously)_ : Fine. If you're not going to do it, I will. _(Holding up the memory stick again)_ And you can go and play with this until the grown-ups have finished.

_Sherlock gives him a dirty look. Mycroft, ignoring it ostentatiously, turns towards John._

MYCROFT _(conversationally)_ : Well, John. Cast your mind back ten years or so. Imagine Sherlock Holmes, barely out of his nappies, a chubby little Natural Science undergraduate in his -

SHERLOCK _(seriously annoyed)_ : Mycroft, stop it.

MYCROFT _(smoothly)_ : Why should I? I'll tell _you_ something. You take this – _(offering Sherlock the memory stick again)_ – and the moment you either crack it or admit defeat, I'll stop. But not a moment before.

_Sherlock looks at his brother with narrowed eyes. Then he stands up, snatches the memory stick out of Mycroft's hand and walks over to his computer on the dining table. John looks slightly uncomfortable. Mycroft, noticing John's expression, takes another sip of his drink._

MYCROFT: He works better under pressure, you know.

_John grimaces unhappily, obviously remembering several not very amusing incidents from the recent past in which he witnessed the truth of this statement.  
_

JOHN: No need to overdo it, Mycroft.

_Sherlock, now at the table, in the chair closest to the left hand window, has started his computer, inserts the stick - which, needless to say, does not cause an explosion - and opens whatever data is on it. He frowns at the screen (which we can't see)._

SHERLOCK: Hmm. Not altogether unpromising.

MYCROFT _(to John, smugly):_ See, he's happy. Alright, where was I? Oh yes, Sherlock, a Natural Science undergraduate in his second year at one of our great old universities, discretion barring me from being more specific than that.

SHERLOCK _(without looking up from the computer)_ : Don't be silly, Mycroft. It wouldn't take even John more than a quick Google search to find out that they don't run a Natural Science course at Oxford. 

JOHN _(in a conciliatory tone):_ Maybe they did, ten years ago?

SHERLOCK: Then Mycroft certainly wouldn't have known about it.

MYCROFT: Well, I've always been of the opinion that one science _geek_ in the family was quite enough.

JOHN _(conversationally):_ So what sort of geek were you at uni, Mycroft?

_Mycroft, surprisingly, doesn't reply. Sherlock looks up and smirks._

JOHN _(to Mycroft):_ You're drinking my scotch, I think I'm entitled to an answer.

_Mycroft now looks as if he'd rather give his glass back than answer the question._

SHERLOCK _(to John)_ : You'll be surprised. Make a guess.

JOHN _(wagging his head, his eyes narrowed):_ Hmm... _(obviously joking)_ Classics and History of Art?

_Mycroft's jaw drops. Sherlock glances at John with an expression of approval, almost pride._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock, accusingly):_ You told him!

SHERLOCK _(mortally offended)_ : Never!

JOHN _(incredulously)_ : _What?_

_Sherlock doubles over in his chair, snorting with laughter. John promptly cracks up, too. They giggle for a considerable time. Mycroft is not amused._

MYCROFT _(annoyed)_ : Careful. _(No effect whatsoever. Mycroft drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.)_ Alright, the clock's running again.

_John clears his throat, shifts in his chair and composes his face into a look of gravity. Sherlock returns to his computer, still giggling occasionally._

MYCROFT: As I said, Sherlock was in his second year, and had managed, at that point, to make exactly one friend, thanks to being run over by a racing bike on Queen's Road when he was crossing  with his nose in a book. He and that friend -

JOHN: Sorry, how do you make friends by -

SHERLOCK _(his eyes fixed on the screen)_ : Depends on the cyclist, doesn't it?

JOHN: No, but _how?_

SHERLOCK _(multi-tasking, typing away on the computer while speaking)_ : He happened to be from my own college and my own year. _He_ was fine, but I was on crutches for two weeks. He kept coming to my room to apologise, although I told him repeatedly that he didn't have to pretend to care. But after a couple of days, we got talking.

MYCROFT: Anyway, this other student, whose name was Vincent Trevor -

SHERLOCK: Victor. Victor Trevor. _(He stops typing and hits a single key with a flourish. His face falls in disappointment, and he groans.)_ Oh, _please_ not.

_Mycroft glances at him with barely disguised triumph. When there is no further reaction from Sherlock, he turns back to John._

MYCROFT: So, _Victor_ Trevor was doing Computer Science or something of the sort, and if you thought that Sherlock was a bit of a _(indicating quotation marks with his fingers)_ nerd _,_ let me tell you that he must have paled utterly in comparison to this new -

SHERLOCK _(looking up, annoyed):_ What's that got to do with the story?

MYCROFT: Well, if you'd rather tell it yourself -

JOHN: Yes, I think I'd actually prefer that, too. _(With a sidelong, not very kind glance at Mycroft)_ I'm kind of missing the human touch, so far. 

_Sherlock stands up abruptly, abandoning his computer, and straightens his jacket with an air of one rising to a challenge._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft)_ : You know, I might.

_John smiles, and the scene dissolves to -_

_* * *_


	2. Chapter 2

**_A picture-perfect aerial view of the city of Cambridge_ ** _on a bright, sunny spring day, as pretty as a postcard or even prettier. A chessboard pattern of college buildings grouped around their green courts, the River Cam and its adjacent parks and gardens encircling the city centre, the bulk of King’s College Chapel and the tower of Great St. Mary’s Church rising high above the gables and spires and parapets of the historical university buildings. We fly over them, relishing their beauty for a moment, and then turn westward, across the river and the riverside gardens known as The Backs, past the University Library, and zoom in on a nondescript modern brick building._

 

 ** _Inside the building._ ** _A long, narrow, bare room furnished as a computer lab, with rows and rows of white desks with computers on them, blinds down to keep the sun out. Almost all places are occupied by students, most of them male with only two or three exceptions, all staring at their screens or typing on their keyboards, nobody speaking, hardly anyone moving except for their fingers, the constant clicking of the keys and mouse-buttons the only audible sounds in the otherwise silent room. Then all of a sudden, the door to the room is thrown open with a flourish, and in the doorway stands Sherlock Holmes, ten years younger than we’re used to seeing him, slightly rounder and rosier in the cheeks, his hair just as we know it, in a navy blue pea jacket and with a tartan scarf around his neck, his violin case slung over his shoulder and an expectant smile on his face. Nobody reacts. The silence in the room – but for the clicking of the keys – stretches. Sherlock visibly deflates. Then in the second row, one of the students raises his head and looks across to the door. He’s a slender young man with slightly overgrown dark hair slicked back from a fine-boned face and equally dark eyes hidden behind a pair of large square black-rimmed spectacles. His lips form a silent “Oh.”_

SHERLOCK: Coming, Victor?

_The student at the computer nods and begins to get up._

 

 ** _T_ _he Backs._ ** _A few minutes later, we see the two friends walking side by side along a path through the gardens towards the river, Sherlock with long, energetic strides, his violin on his back, and Victor, who is about half a head shorter, almost jogging to keep up. He has a backpack on his back and also carries a violin case in his hand. Sherlock looks slightly absurd in his jacket, which is obviously too warm for the day and also makes his shoulders look half as broad again as they really are, but he doesn’t seem aware of the fact. He’s also not yet quite in the full formidable control of his long limbs that we see ten years later, but seems oblivious of that, too._

VICTOR _(threatening to fall behind again, annoyed):_ You and your obsession with punctuality! There’s no point in being early! _(Sherlock rolls his eyes but shows no signs of slowing down.)_ You’re losing me eight valuable minutes, at least. Arkady will be far ahead of me by now, and I’ll never catch up!

SHERLOCK _(over his shoulder)_ : What were you working on?

VICTOR: They’re doing a trial run with a new SSL protocol over at The Other Place. We’re trying to get in, they’re trying to keep us out.

SHERLOCK: How’s it going?

VICTOR: Very promising.

SHERLOCK: For them, or for us?

VICTOR: Oh, both. It’s all totally white hat. A virtual Boat Race. We’re gonna win, and they’ll be glad to know what needs patching.

_He grins confidently, Sherlock joining in. They cross a stone bridge to the other side of the river and pass under an archway leading into a college court._

SHERLOCK: And while you're at it, you'll make a fortune selling this year's exam questions to their undergraduates.

_Victor chuckles._

**_Inside the college building._ ** _A large rehearsal room, every available space filled with chairs and music stands set up in a semi-circle around the conductor's desk, a piano in one corner, a harpsichord in another. About four fifths of the chairs are already occupied by students with their various instruments, setting up their scores on the stands, tuning, chatting, doing bits of last-minute practise on difficult parts. There is a cacophony of sounds on the air, snatches of classical music, rustling of paper, much clattering and scraping of chairs across the wooden floorboards, fragments of conversation, laughter. We see Victor weaving between the chairs to his place somewhere within the relative obscurity of the middle rows, his violin and bow in one hand, raised carefully so as not to bump them against anything, a folder of sheet music under his arm. He arrives at his chair and sits down. Sherlock – looking neat in a plain black shirt and jeans, but still far away from the sartorial elegance of later years - is already in the chair next to Victor's, busy adjusting the shoulder rest of his own instrument, which seems to have come off. Victor selects a sheet from his folder and sets it up on the stand they share, then brings his violin up to his shoulder, runs his bow tentatively across the A string and glances at Sherlock._

SHERLOCK _(still fiddling with the shoulder rest, not looking up):_ No.

_Victor gives a peg at the end of the violin's neck a turn. The tone rises a little._

SHERLOCK _(as before):_ No.

_Another turn to the peg, another attempt, higher still._

SHERLOCK: Yes.

VICTOR _(under his breath):_ It's a curse, that.

_He begins to tune the other strings, but is interrupted when a petite but very resolute-looking Asian girl with edgy short hair rises from the end seat in the front row – the leader's chair – and looks around at her fellow players, demanding their attention._

VICTOR: Oh. I like So-Yun's new haircut.

SO-YUN _(loudly)_ : Alright, everyone.

_The orchestra falls silent. She nods towards the oboist in the back row behind Sherlock and Victor, who stands up and intones an A for the rest of the players to tune to, which is noticeably lower than the one Sherlock and Victor had just settled on. Sherlock cringes._

VICTOR: I said it was a curse.

SHERLOCK: Didn't hear me disagree.

_They – like everyone else – tune. While they do, a man in his fifties – the conductor, Professor McAllister – steps up to his desk and sets up his score. He walks with a slight limp, but carries himself very well otherwise. He's not tall, but his mane of grey hair brushed back from a high forehead and his scimitar of a nose, on which a pair of reading glasses is perched, make him look rather impressive. He is in a grey suit with a silk scarf tied loosely around his neck in place of a tie, and his hand that holds the conductor's baton is carefully manicured. He looks very much like the artist that he is, and he's fully aware of it. He waits for the orchestra to finish their tuning, then raises his head and exchanges a look with So-Yun, who nods._

McALLISTER: Right, everybody. End of term concert's getting closer, and we've still got a lot to get through. Now let me hear what you've done in the sectionals, and try not to disappoint me as badly as last week.

_He raises his arms, and as one the musicians raise their instruments. A moment later, they're away into what sounds, at least to the casual listener, like a very respectable rendition of the Overture to Handel's “Jephtha”. McAllister is conducting with great precision but little enthusiasm, his face falling visibly as they go along. Sherlock and Victor exchange a look, and a moment later their bows go out of sync as Sherlock's skips and bounces merrily over a couple of notes in a rhythm quite different from that of the other violins around him. Shortly after that, the incident repeats itself. Sherlock and Victor exchange another look, now both grinning. McAllister abruptly lowers his arms. The music breaks off. Victor mouths a silent “Uh-oh” at Sherlock._

McALLISTER _(in a tone of great discontent)_ : Firstly, everyone - please take your tempo from what _I_ give you. I don’t stand here merely for decorative purposes. I want it stately, not in a mad rush. Secondly, strings – no sugar icing on top, please. This isn’t Verdi.

_The string players in the front rows look slightly crestfallen.  
_

McALLISTER: Thirdly, bassoons -  I can't even hear you.

_The two boys with the bassoons in the back row look mortified. McAllister lets his eyes travel over the rest of the orchestra, looking for more victims._

McALLISTER: And would the gentlemen at the third desk in the second violins kindly not try to improve Handel, but confine themselves to playing what is written in the score. There is no dotting on the scales in bars forty-six and fifty-two.

_Victor looks up in alarm, opens his mouth as if to protest, then wordlessly points across at his stand partner, who tries and fails to look perfectly innocent._

McALLISTER _(to Sherlock, pointing his baton at him like a weapon):_ And don't _you_ dare tell me that there is a manuscript somewhere in an obscure German archive that supports your version.

SHERLOCK _(smoothly):_ No, sir, the only known autograph is the one in the Royal Music Library in London, and it supports yours.

_McAllister looks grimly satisfied._

SHERLOCK: But it's a fake.

_A burst of laughter rises from the ranks of the orchestra, hastily but imperfectly suppressed. McAllister gives Sherlock a monumentally displeased look over the rim of his reading glasses, then clears his throat and raises his arms again for a new attempt on the overture. They restart._

McALLISTER _(after a while, conducting and commenting at the same time):_ Strings, yes, better. That's what I meant. Bassoons, you're still not there.

_They play on as far as bar forty-six, and we can see Sherlock doing the same little stunt again._

McALLISTER _(loudly):_ And I heard that, Holmes!

_They finish the piece this time, everyone visibly relieved that they're allowed to. McAllister, somewhat mollified by now, turns back the pages of his score, looking for details that still need improving, and starts talking to So-Yun in a low tone._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock)_ : You keep doing that, and one day he'll kick you out.

SHERLOCK: Oh, come on. It's an overture, not a funeral march.

_They look up as their conductor taps his desk with his baton to get everyone’s attention._

McALLISTER: Alright, we'll leave it at that for today. Let's move on to the Mozart flute concerto. We'll just do the tutti bits one by one, since there's no time for the solos today.

SHERLOCK _(rather loudly):_ Oh, thank goodness.

 _Victor and Sherlock's neighbours on the other side give him slightly irritated looks._ _He turns in his chair to look over his shoulder at one of the flute players in the row behind him and gives her a glaringly false smile. The girl blushes furiously, deeply hurt. She's a blonde girl with a round face, her hair up in an elaborate bun, wearing slightly too much make-up, her blouse cut slightly too low, her skirt slightly too short, hands with long red fingernails clutching her flute to her chest in rigid offence. She is hardly recognisable as the happy and relaxed Violet Westbury from the Christmas card photograph._

_  
_

_* * *_

 

 **_Inside the college. The Hall._ ** _Morning on the next day. Wood-panelled walls and a magnificent stuccoed ceiling with large chandeliers hanging from it, three long tables, students milling around, carrying trays, a constant coming and going. Chatter, laughter, the clatter of cutlery. At the near end of one of the tables, Sherlock, Victor and a third student are just finishing their breakfast, Sherlock on one side of the table with his back to the open door, Victor and the other one opposite him. This other one is Sebastian Wilkes, less ten years and at least twenty pounds, in a navy blue polo-shirt with the college coat of arms on the chest, one of his big hands around a steaming coffee mug. Victor is in a tight-fitting jersey in glaring neon colours, his bike helmet, bike gloves and sunglasses on the table next to him. Sherlock’s hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s the only one who is still eating, munching on a piece of toast. All three of them have their noses in what is apparently the latest issue of the college newspaper, and none of them speaks. There is a sudden loud clacking noise of a woman in high heels making her way across the wooden floor. Victor and Sebastian both look up, and their heads turn in ludicrous unison as their eyes follow a mini-skirted Violet Westbury on her way from the door to the far end of their table. Sherlock, without so much as glancing over his shoulder, picks up some paper napkins from his breakfast tray and holds them out to Victor and Sebastian simultaneously, one in either hand. With an effort, Sebastian and Victor tear their eyes away from the rear view of Violet’s swaying hips and, still comically in sync, look at Sherlock with identical questioning frowns._

SHERLOCK: You’re _drooling._

_Sebastian’s hand goes up to his mouth as if to verify the truth of this statement. Victor looks hurt._

VICTOR: Why do you hate her so much?

SHERLOCK _(his eyes already back on the newspaper, in a bored voice):_ I don’t hate her. Hatred requires an emotional investment, and I have none of that to waste on a silly little cow who thinks that being a moderately gifted musician excuses her from using her brain, and sleeping with her tutor will get her through her exams.  

SEBASTIAN _(with a broad grin)_ : Isn’t that how you do it?

SHERLOCK: Speak for yourself.

SEBASTIAN: Yeah – _(pulling a face)_ Urgh, no.

VICTOR _(quietly)_ : Sherlock, I think you’ve got that wrong.

SHERLOCK: No I haven’t.

SEBASTIAN _(triumphantly)_ : Yes you do! Look at that!

_He jerks his head towards the other end of the table, to a little group of male students in the college’s rowing gear. Violet is standing by one of them – a very athletic, well-built young man with short ginger hair – and, leaning down towards him with her hand on his broad shoulder, is engaged in a long and passionate kiss. Sherlock glances at them and shrugs._

SHERLOCK: All part of her strategy. Next to Simon D’Arcy, even she looks brainy.

_He returns to the newspaper. So does Sebastian. Victor is the last of the three to do so, looking unhappy._

SEBASTIAN _(turning pages):_ Ah, this sounds good. _(Reading aloud)_ “Five fun facts about your college. Did you know that – “

SHERLOCK: Yes.

SEBASTIAN _(deflating)_ : Oh, _really._

VICTOR _(to Sebastian):_ He’s kidding you. He wrote that piece.

SEBASTIAN _(peering myopically at the article in front of him)_ : It says “by Sheridan Hope”.

_Sherlock shrugs._

SEBASTIAN: Just how many personalities _do_ you have? _(Skimming through the article, in a disappointed tone)_ Aw. I thought it said “fun”. I was looking for something about the ghost in the crypt, or the mystery of the secret room between the first year girls’ corridor and Staircase B.

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ It’s not a secret room. It’s a locked door, that’s all.

SEBASTIAN _(slyly):_ Oh, how d'you know that? Been to visit lately?

SHERLOCK _(in a flat voice)_ : Never been there in my life.

VICTOR: Remember, he hates first year girls. Or doesn’t make emotional investments in them or whatever he pleases to call it.

SHERLOCK: So-Yun’s nice.

VICTOR _(smugly)_ : “Nice”, is she? _(To Sebastian)_ You could never tell that from the way she makes him sweat in the sectionals.

SEBASTIAN _(with a leer)_ : Oh, I'm sure he likes it.

_Sherlock, in despair, buries his head under the newspaper. Sebastian takes pity on him._

SEBASTIAN: No, but seriously, how d'you know about the room being not a room but just a door if you’ve never been there?

SHERLOCK _(reappearing from under the newspaper, disdainfully):_ I know it because I can count to fourteen, which is apparently more than we can expect from our country’s future top bankers.

_Sebastian, passing over the insult, just looks puzzled._

SHERLOCK _(rapid fire deduction mode)_ : Fourteen windows from one corner of the court to the other. Nine, on the right hand side, for the girls. Five, on the left hand side, on Staircase B. Number five of those on the second floor, the one that is open twenty-three hours every day even in December, is Professor Bergmann's, who is a fresh air fanatic, as you would know if you'd ever had to shiver through a tutorial with him, which I have the pleasure of doing every Thursday morning. The one directly next to his – number nine from the right – is already part of the girls' wing, because it's So-Yun's. If you perk up your ears when you cross the court at ten o'clock at night and pass under that window, you'll hear her doing her bed-time etudes on her violin. So unless you want to argue that that legendary secret room is less than a foot wide, there's no way it's going to fit between Professor Bergmann on Staircase B and So-Yun on the girls' wing. The corridor's been bricked up at that point, and there's a door through that wall, yes, but that's just what it is, a door.

VICTOR: Locked.

SHERLOCK: Of course. Even in this famously liberal place it would be a bit of a stretch to allow the venerable Fellows from Staircase B a direct and unrestricted access to the first year girls' quarters, wouldn't it?

_Sebastian, who has evidently stopped listening a while ago, sighs. Victor shrugs and turns to a different page of his newspaper. There is a sudoku on it with a ridiculously large proportion of blank spaces. Victor picks up a pen from the table and starts filling them in rapidly with never a visible pause for thought. Sebastian watches him and grimaces.  
_

SEBASTIAN: What a pair you make. The hacker and the lab rat. I wonder why I put up with you?

SHERLOCK _(hardly glancing up):_ Feel free to leave. Besides, there's someone at the door who thinks it's time you did.

SEBASTIAN: What?

_He looks over Sherlock's head towards the door. In the open doorway - behind Sherlock's back - stands an Indian student, who smiles expectantly at Sebastian and jerks his head towards the exit in a “You coming?” gesture._

SEBASTIAN: How – oh, never mind.

_He picks up his bag and goes to join his friend, shaking his head in irritation. When he is gone, Sherlock stretches his hand out towards a shiny chrome-plated thermos coffee jug on the table and experimentally turns it this way and that, trying to get more mirror views of the room behind him.  
_

VICTOR: Good one.

_Sherlock smiles._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_**Inside the college gatehouse.** _ _The morning of the following Thursday. In the distance, Great St. Mary’s can be heard striking three quarters of an hour. Straight ahead, we can see a part of the sunlit lane outside the outer archway, a group of schoolchildren walking past, all with identical backpacks with a language school logo on it, chattering merrily. To the left, a broad flight of stone stairs descends directly into the gatehouse from the upper floors of the building, marked with a polished wooden sign with gilded letters as “Staircase A”. To the right, directly opposite the staircase, is the porter’s lodge, with a counter in front and a desk and several cupboards and filing cabinets and technical implements filling the space behind it. A porter is seated behind the counter, a rather overweight, elderly man with huge glasses, busy entering data from a spreadsheet into a computer, typing laboriously with only his index fingers. A pair of girls come walking down the staircase, one exceptionally tall and athletic, with long curly blonde hair, wearing a t-shirt in the colours of the college's rowing team, the other exceptionally short, with a shock of messy dark hair and round glasses that make her look rather owlish. They both have their arms full of folders and books. They nod to the porter - who nods back with a smile - and turn aside towards the open inner archway leading into the college court, probably on their way to a tutorial. A moment later, Sherlock enters from the street, in his pea jacket and tartan scarf again, a laptop bag over his shoulder. He walks with his usual long, energetic strides, his footsteps echoing on the flagstones of the gatehouse passage. The porter looks up._

PORTER: Oh, _you_ were an early bird today.

SHERLOCK _(sweeping straight past the porter without so much as looking at him):_ Miracles do happen, Mr Thompson.

_The porter grins after him almost fondly, not put out in the least. As Sherlock passes through the inner archway into the court, we can see that he is smiling, too._

 

 _**In the court,** _ _there is a hum of activity. Students, Fellows and other college officials walk across the scene or stand together in little groups. The eastern half of the buildings - with the entrance to the Hall - is still in shadow, while the western half is already bathed in brilliant sunshine. On this side of the court, on a long wooden bench against the wall, next to an arched open doorway marked “Staircase B”, So-Yun is sitting with a musical score in her hands and a pencil between her fingers, sometimes humming a snatch of music, sometimes putting a note into the score. She, too, is in a t-shirt and wears sunglasses. Her bag and a cardigan that she must have been wearing earlier in the day are next to her on the bench. As Sherlock approaches her, she raises her head and pushes her sunglasses up into her hair._

SO-YUN: Good morning. _(Looking him up and down)_ Are you sure you're warm enough?

_Sherlock meaningfully raises his eyes towards the perpetually open window of Professor Bergmann's room on the second floor, directly above them._

SO-YUN: Oh. Of course. _(Her eyes return to her score.)_

_Sherlock gestures towards the empty half of the bench._

SHERLOCK: D'you mind?

_She shakes her head and moves aside a little to make room. Sherlock sits down next to her and nods towards the score in her hands._

SHERLOCK: What've you got there?

SO-YUN: Chopin. Just passing the time. Violet's still in there. _(She pencils a couple of notes in the margin, shaking her head in grudging admiration.)_ Devious. Clever but oh so devious.

SHERLOCK: Who, McAllister?

SO-YUN _(looking up)_ : No, Chopin. But you have a point, too. _(She closes the score and smiles.)_ Although that's probably a case of a black kettle – I mean pot. Whatever.

SHERLOCK: Thank you.

SO-YUN: Don't you wonder why he lets you get away with it all? Sometimes I think he secretly fancies you, or something.

SHERLOCK _(in a bored voice):_ No, he fancies pretty girls.

SO-YUN _(with a mischievous grin):_ But you are a pretty girl. In your own way.

_Sherlock's eyebrows fly up into his hair._

SO-YUN: Alright. Only from behind. If I squint.

_Sherlock gives her a mock-disapproving look. At that moment, there is a sound of a door slamming shut from the direction of the entrance to Staircase B. Sherlock and So-Yun turn to see what’s going on. Violet comes storming out of the open doorway. She looks hurt and confused, close to tears. Looking neither left nor right, she starts marching down the court towards the gatehouse, walking with one of her fists clenched tightly at her side, running her other hand over her face in distress._

SO-YUN: Uh-oh.

_She jumps up from her seat and hurries after Violet. Sherlock watches her as she reaches her friend and tries to take her by the arm, but Violet shakes her off, walking on determinedly. So-Yun follows her, and they disappear together under the archway into the gatehouse, turning left to ascend Staircase A to their rooms._

 

* * *

 

 _**The rehearsal room,** _ _some days later._ _The student orchestra is in the middle of the first movement of Mozart's Flute Concerto No. 2 in D major, Professor McAllister conducting, Violet Westbury in the soloist's place next to him. They're playing beautifully, the cheerful music lighting up the whole room, Violet with her flute putting the birds in the trees outside to shame. It is obvious that she is in fact a very good musician. Even McAllister looks grudgingly pleased. Sherlock and Victor are side by side in their usual places, Sherlock playing with his eyes fast closed, frowning very slightly on occasion. Then suddenly, on a particularly virtuoso part, the flute stumbles, Violet's fingers fumbling slightly on the keys. She cringes and screws up her face in an effort to remain on track, then derails completely, going out of sync with the rest of the orchestra in jarring discord. McAllister lowers his arms. The music breaks off. Sherlock opens his eyes._

VIOLET _(blushing crimson):_ Sorry. I'm so sorry.

_McAllister smiles sourly, but doesn't comment. He simply waits for her to regain her composure. She wipes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths._

VICTOR _(to Sherlock, under his breath):_ You really got it all by heart?

SHERLOCK: No. I'm predicting it. ( _He points his bow at the sheet on their stand.)_ Works beautifully with something as trivial as this.

_Victor inhales sharply and gives Sherlock a look as if to suggest that the latter has taken leave of his senses._

McALLISTER _(loudly):_ Alright, everyone. Back to letter B, please.

_Sherlock and Victor return their attention to their conductor. They play._

_**Some time later,** _ _the rehearsal has ended. The members of the orchestra are leaving, Professor McAllister is already gone, and Violet is just clacking her way out of the door on her high heels. Sherlock and Victor are at one of the tables along the back wall of the room where the players store their instrument cases and bags during rehearsals, packing up their violins._

VICTOR: You know, about what you said the other day.

SHERLOCK: Mmh?

VICTOR _(quietly)_ : About her, I mean. _(He jerks his head towards the door.)_ And him.

SHERLOCK _(indifferently)_ : What about them?   
  
VICTOR: Well, you know – she's in Performance, she wouldn't need to – you know. She'd get the solo parts anyway, for practice. And I don't think she's the type to -

SHERLOCK: I said she _thinks_ that hooking up with him would help her through exams. I never said she'd done it. Though it's probably not going to be long now, with only two weeks to go and her skirts getting shorter by the day.

VICTOR: What? She’s been wearing that black one all term.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically):_ Oh, listen to the expert.

VICTOR _(annoyed):_ I don't care what you think, but she isn't stupid. She's making a real effort. Spends hours in the library with So-Yun. I think she's just really worried about exams. Very, very nervous, you know. People are, sometimes.

SHERLOCK: Nervous enough to throw us out of the same piece three times in a row?

VICTOR: Yes! Isn't it obvious? There's nothing wrong with her playing, normally. But right now, she's just getting worse and worse. She's desperate. She's panicking. And I think McAllister knows it as well, or why else would he be so patient with her?

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully):_ He's patient with her because _he_ certainly wants to shag her, and if she has any self-respect left she isn't going to let him if he tears her to pieces like he would everyone else. _(Victor looks unhappy, but doesn't reply.)_ And what about keeping us all waiting for close on fifteen minutes in the first place, and then rushing in all flustered and out of breath and oh-so-busy and sorry sorry sorry but I'm a diva so I’ll keep you waiting all I want? What kind of exam nerves make you behave like that?

_His voice has got louder and louder, and Victor looks round in embarrassment to check whether anyone has heard, but the room is now empty except for the two of them._

VICTOR _(hotly):_ Well, anyone can be late some time, can't they? She's never kept us waiting before, I'm sure there was a reason, so don't go on about it, will you?

SHERLOCK: Oh, and _you_ never complain about people stealing _your_ time, do you? How come she's allowed to do that when nobody else is?

VICTOR _(not rising to the bait)_ : Well, all I can say is, you've got it wrong, all wrong.

SHERLOCK _(after a moment's pause, coolly):_ I wonder why you care.

VICTOR: About her? _(Scathingly)_ Because she's a fellow human being? Why don't you?

_He closes the lid of his violin case with a snap, picks it up, turns on his heel and walks out of the room without another word, leaving Sherlock behind, looking pensive._

 

* * *

 

 _**The college library,** _ _a couple of days later. A large room filled with rows upon rows of bookshelves, and on the window side, a long table with desk lamps on it. Muted light, and muted conversation from two or three students sitting at one end of the long table with their coursework spread out before them. On one wall, well hidden behind the last row of shelves on that side of the room, there is a rack on which scientific journals and periodicals are displayed. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the floor in the narrow passage in front of it, a dog-eared issue of “Nature” open on his lap, absorbed in one of the papers, his chin resting on his folded hands. There is the sound of a door opening and closing, and of footsteps – muted by the thick carpet - coming down one of the aisles between the shelves to the long table. Sherlock doesn’t react. A moment later, familiar voices come floating towards him from the direction of the table, and we can see him perk up his ears, though outwardly motionless._

SO-YUN _(off-screen):_ So, shall we go through this one again?

VIOLET _(off-screen, rather unenthusiastically):_ Alright.

_Silence. Sherlock turns a page of his journal._

SO-YUN _(after a while, still off-screen):_ Now, look. Figured bass really isn’t rocket science. All you have to do is learn the most usual combinations by heart. And then remember a set of rules. Like here - when you have an accidental without a number, it always refers to the note a third above the lowest note.

VIOLET _(off-screen, with a sigh):_ Right. So here’s the first inversion – I mean the second…

_Silence, except for the scratching of pencils on paper._

SO-YUN _(off-screen)_ : Sorry, no. That one is with a number, so it refers not to the third but to the interval the number indicates. The fourth, in this case. _(A short pause. In a different tone, very sympathetically)_ Oh, don’t. Don’t, Violet. You’ll be alright.

_In one smooth and almost inaudible movement, Sherlock is on his feet, the journal still in his hands. He backs away slowly and silently towards the centre of the aisle, where a gap between the books on the shelf at eye level gives him a limited view of the long table. Through a maze of metal boards and racks, he can see Violet sitting with her face buried in her hands, crying quietly. So-Yun, next to her, has her arm around her, patting her gently on the back._

VIOLET _(with a sniff):_ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re so patient and so kind, but you’re wasting your time, So-Yun. Really, I can’t even think straight any more. I’ve tried everything, everything. I’ve gone out of my way to figure out what’s expected of me, and I really can’t keep relying on other people to help me with that. It’s not fair that anyone should get into trouble on my account, just because I can’t – I feel so guilty – _(She starts crying again.)_

SO-YUN _(kindly):_ But you’re not getting me into trouble at all, dear. I enjoy explaining stuff, honestly. It helps me understand it better, too.

VIOLET: It’s not just you.

SO-YUN _(encouragingly):_ See, so there are lots of people here who haven’t given up on you just yet! Isn’t that nice to know?

_Violet sniffs again and blows her nose._

SO-YUN: Shall we try again?

VIOLET: Alright.

 _Sherlock edges away again carefully, back towards the periodicals, replaces his journal on the rack where it belongs, then – no longer concerned about secrecy - turns on his heel and walks_ _down the aisle towards the exit. In the door, he almost bumps into Sebastian Wilkes, who was just about to enter, his head down and his eyes on a reading list._

SEBASTIAN _(looking up)_ : Whoops. What are _you_ doing here? You know it all anyway.

SHERLOCK: Just verifying a theory. And now excuse me, I need to make a phone call.

_He walks away, taking his phone out of his pocket. Sebastian shakes his head after him, and we cut to -_

 

 _**The office of an obviously important person, somewhere within a government institution in London.** _ _Wood-panelled walls with portraits of grim-looking besuited men in thick gold frames, heavy leather chairs, and a huge desk with an equally heavy elderly man sitting behind it. He has a file open on his desk and is reading in it. In front of his desk stands the Mycroft Holmes of ten years ago, the hair on his forehead not yet quite as sparse, wearing a well tailored but otherwise completely unremarkable dark grey suit. The important person looks up from the file, closes it and hands it to Mycroft._

IMPORTANT PERSON: Excellent, Mr Holmes, excellent, as usual.

MYCROFT _(deferentially):_ Thank you, sir.

IMPORTANT PERSON: Now do as well again on our position regarding Chechnya, and I’m convinced we may expect truly great things from you in the future.

MYCROFT _(smiling proudly):_ Thank you, sir.

_At that moment, the phone in his pocket starts ringing. He claps his hand to it in alarm, deeply embarrassed._

IMPORTANT PERSON _(generously):_ Oh no, take it, please. We were finished, I believe.

_Mycroft receives the folder back from his superior, sketches a little bow and backs out of the room, his phone still ringing. We cut to the corridor outside the office. Mycroft closes the door behind him, takes the phone out of the inner pocket of his jacket and glances at the caller ID. His expression changes instantly to one of extreme annoyance._

MYCROFT _(taking the call, without preamble):_ Didn’t I tell you not to call me at work unless – _(He pauses and listens.)_ Oh, _urgent_ , is it? Well, out with it. What is it this time, exam nerves, another hopeless crush, or do you want me to do you a favour? _(He listens to the reply and frowns.)_ What do you mean, a combination of all three?

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

_**The rehearsal room.** _ _The members of the orchestra are getting ready for another rehearsal. Almost all chairs are already occupied. Some late arrivals are still making their way towards their places. Professor McAllister is at the conductor’s desk. So-Yun stands next to him. They’re both looking down at the score on his desk, McAllister speaking and, waving his hand in the air, indicating some particular rhythm or tempo. So-Yun nods her understanding. Sherlock and Victor are already in their places, too, Victor applying rosin to his bow, Sherlock with his violin propped upright on his knee and his chin resting on the scroll, his eyes on the screen of his phone, which he holds in his other hand._

SHERLOCK _(under his breath):_ God, he’s slow.

VICTOR: Who is?

SHERLOCK: Never mind. _(He pockets the phone. Deliberately changing the subject)_ You know, I envy you sometimes.

_Victor raises an eyebrow._

SHERLOCK: No, really. You live in a world of binary code. It simplifies everything. Zero - one, either - or, nothing in between. Light and dark, good and evil, white hat and black hat.

_Victor looks slightly disconcerted._

SHERLOCK: Don’t you sometimes wonder why the rest of the universe wasn’t constructed on the same principles?

VICTOR _(drily):_ I do wonder what was in your lunch today, and who put it there.

 _At the same moment, at the front of the orchestra, So-Yun returns to her seat, and McAllister straightens up and glances expectantly around the room. The musicians fall silent._ _In the hush just before the oboist intones the A, there is a clearly audible text alert beep from a phone._

McALLISTER _(peeved):_ And that's five pounds in the kitty, whoever that was. Switch. it. off.

_In close-up, we can see that Sherlock has his phone out again. He scrolls through a text message, which reads:_

The answer is yes. Logged on 15:57, logged off 16:09. No record of an external device being connected; none of a printer being used. WHY? MH

_A deeply satisfied smile forms on Sherlock's face._

McALLISTER _(looking directly at Sherlock):_ And it will be ten unless you put it away _now._

_Sherlock raises his head, wipes the smile off his face, pockets his phone and dutifully brings his violin up to his chin. McAllister is still looking at him as if he expects some sort of clever rejoinder, almost put out by the fact that there is none. Then he nods to the oboist, and they begin tuning properly._

VICTOR _(under his breath):_ How do you manage to find a new way to annoy him every time we're here?

_Sherlock gives Victor a pointed look over his violin, but doesn’t reply. When he returns his attention to the pegs and the strings of his instrument, the smile is back on his face._

McALLISTER: Alright. Mozart please, the last movement.

_There is a rustling of paper all around as the players put their scores on the stands._

SHERLOCK _(glancing up at Violet as she makes her way to the front of the orchestra for her solo):_ And please no more than four or five times today.

_Victor looks slightly annoyed._

VICTOR: I told you she can’t help it.

SHERLOCK: Doesn’t make it better.

VICTOR: So what are you gonna do if she throws us out again?

SHERLOCK: Drop a bombshell.

VICTOR: What, in a grade I listed building?

_Sherlock shrugs. McAllister raises his arms. They play._

 

 _**Some minutes later,** _ _they are three quarters through their piece, everyone making a very respectable job of it except Violet, who plays much worse than before, more than once even missing cues. McAllister keeps giving her sidelong frowns, his patience visibly wearing thin. She does her best to ignore it, but it makes her even more insecure. By the time they reach the point towards the end where the orchestra falls silent and the flute rises out of the silence for the final solo, Violet is a nervous wreck, her instrument trembling in her hands. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to keep going at all cost, and painfully manages a few more bars. McAllister, massively displeased, raises his hand as if to signal her to stop, but at exactly that moment, another instrument seamlessly picks up the melody, and carries it on alone when Violet lowers her flute in surprise. McAllister’s eyes fix almost immediately on the source of it. Heads turn to see what he is looking at, and there is Sherlock, finishing Violet's solo for her on his violin, not flawlessly perfect in every single note, but decently enough considering that he's playing by ear. There is a look of innocent unconcern on his face, his eyes on his fingers dancing up and down the strings. By the time he’s nearing the end, he’s on a roll, piling it on with a lot of vibrato and a couple of extra flourishes as the melody rises up and up towards the triumphant finale. Which never comes, because instead of joining in on their cue, the orchestra dissolves in laughter, some players tapping their bows on their stands in applause, even a wolf whistle here and there. Victor, next to Sherlock, grins in spite of himself. So-Yun can be seen shaking her head, torn between exasperation and amusement. Violet alone stands like a statue, her arms hanging at her sides. Sherlock lowers his violin and looks up to meet McAllister's piercing stare with a very unconvincing modest smile._

SHERLOCK: Just trying to save us all a bit of time. _(Cheerfully)_ OK, done. Can we play something more interesting now?

_All heads turn to see their conductor's reaction. When McAllister opens his mouth to speak -_

SHERLOCK _(cutting him off):_ Oh, please don't feel obliged to point out that I'd make a very poor replacement for her in every conceivable respect. _(With an air of generously conceding a point)_ Yes, alright, I'm not saying that you'd be averse to experimenting a little on occasion, but you generally prefer the type that just holds still and doesn't talk back, don't you?

_This raises another laugh, but more subdued this time. Quite a few of the students are beginning to look uncomfortable rather than amused. Victor's grin has disappeared entirely. McAllister crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing._

SHERLOCK _(still mock-modestly)_ : I'm well aware that I'm nowhere near her level of ingenuity when it comes to impressing you, on stage or off.

_Violet gives a jolt at this._

VIOLET _(bewildered):_ What?

_She turns abruptly towards McAllister as if for his support._

SHERLOCK: But even if she's currently not quite as impressive as usual _on_ stage, I think that off stage, you'll soon be in for a surprise or two.

_In the faces of the intently listening students, there is no trace left now of the former merriment. They can be seen to exchange doubtful looks, puzzled as to where all this is going, but sensing that it is not going to end well. Victor even makes a little move as if to put a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm._

McALLISTER _(massively annoyed):_ What do you mean?

SHERLOCK _(gesturing at Violet)_ : Why don't you ask her?

McALLISTER _(impatiently):_ Ask her what?

SHERLOCK: Well, a good starting point would be what she was doing on the computer in your room at four o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, when we were all kicking our heels in here waiting for her. Was she just checking your browser history for clues on how best to make you happy in a private context, or was she looking for something more immediately and substantially helpful to see her through her exams?

_A heavy silence follows his words. McAllister stands thunderstruck. Violet gapes at Sherlock, shocked almost out of her senses. Victor, too, stares at him, aghast. The room seems to collectively hold its breath. Sherlock looks very pleased with the effect._

SHERLOCK _(pertly)_ : Go on, ask her.

_Another silence. Then -_

McALLISTER _(in cold rage, almost spitting out the words)_ : Get out. Just _get_ _out._

_Sherlock smiles a wry little smile. Then, without protest, but also without haste, he stands up, winds his way out from among the other players with his violin and bow in his hand, and heads for the door._

McALLISTER _(calling after him, loudly):_ And don't come back!

_Sherlock reaches the door, and it slams shut behind him, leaving the room in an appalled silence. Then Violet Westbury bursts into tears, and Victor Trevor hangs his head, looking physically ill._

 

_* * *_

 

 _**A view of the lane leading up to the college gatehouse.** _ _Late afternoon on the same day. A grey, overcast sky, clouds hanging low, threatening rain, a rumble of thunder in the distance. Sherlock, in his pea jacket again, with his violin case over his shoulder and his laptop bag under the other arm, is hurrying towards the gates, stepping into the road to avoid a group of Asian tourists going the other way. He glances up at the sky just before he passes under the archway into the gatehouse, glad to have made it home before the rain - and stops dead the moment he is inside the building. We follow his gaze, straight through the passage and out again at the inner archway into the court. A man in a bright red goretex jacket is crossing the court, seen from behind as if he has passed through the gatehouse only a moment before. By his limp and his mane of grey hair, it is clearly Professor McAllister. He turns aside towards the doorway of Staircase B and disappears from view. Sherlock, who has drawn aside a little to avoid being seen by his newly-ex conductor, comes to life again and walks on through the passage and past the porter’s lodge. The porter on duty is Mr Thompson, the same we’ve seen in an earlier scene. He looks up at Sherlock with a smile and points over his shoulder to his left._

THOMPSON: Don’t forget to check your mail.

_Sherlock merely nods, too preoccupied to exchange any witticisms with the porter today, and turns the corner into the narrow passage beyond the porter’s lodge where the students have their pigeon-holes. There is a large, thick brown envelope jutting out from one of the compartments. Sherlock’s eyes fix on it, and he smiles even before he takes it out and reads his address on it, written in round, bold handwriting._

THOMPSON _(off-screen, calling after him jovially):_ Looks like someone thinks you need feeding up!

_Sherlock turns the envelope in his hands, feeling it, and nods approvingly. Then he slits it open with his index finger and takes a king-sized chocolate bar from it, which he pockets before he turns his attention to the remaining contents of the envelope. It’s a rather random-looking collection of newspaper cut-outs (some with their headlines highlighted or notes pencilled in the margin), scientific articles torn out of magazines, and a photocopied sheet with what looks like a song or even a church hymn on it. Sherlock quickly leafs through them and then stuffs them all back into the envelope except for a sheaf of lavender-coloured letter paper, several pages covered in the same handwriting that we saw on the envelope. He turns towards the exit, his eyes on the letter, reading as he walks. But only three or four steps further on, a sudden flash of lightning illuminates the interior of the gatehouse, and with an enormous thunderclap, the rain starts coming down in a torrential downpour, soaking the grass in the court and the gravel of its paths within moments. Changing his mind, Sherlock turns his back on the weather and continues reading on the spot while he waits for the rain to subside. He turns over the first page, smiling in an unusually unguarded, truly affectionate way._

_**Some minutes later,** _ _Sherlock is on the last page of his letter. The rain keeps coming down heavily, and there is still an almost continuous roll of thunder. The bells of Great St. Mary’s, braving the elements, can just be heard chiming five o’clock. As the final stroke of the bell dies away, a familiar man’s voice speaks up around the corner, at the counter of the porter’s lodge, unseen by Sherlock._

McALLISTER _(off-screen, sounding apologetic and slightly out of breath):_ Well, thank you for your help, Mr Thompson. It’s all sorted now.

THOMPSON _(off-screen, cheerfully)_ : No problem, sir. That’s what we’re here for.

 _Sherlock raises his head sharply, then silently edges closer to the corner into the main passage and very, very carefully peers around it. Professor McAllister is at the counter, still in his bright red rainproof jacket, in the act of turning away from the porter towards the outer archway. He puts up the hood of his jacket over his hair, readjusts the bicycle clips around the legs of his trousers,_ _and resolutely steps out of the college gates into the pouring rain. When he is gone, the porter gets up from his desk and, as he does so, notices Sherlock standing in the passage, no longer hiding but looking after Professor McAllister very thoughtfully._

THOMPSON _(jerking his head in the direction in which Professor McAllister has just disappeared, grumpily):_ Him and his keys.

_Sherlock gives him a politely interested look._

THOMPSON _(walking over to a key safe mounted on the wall of his lodge, speaking over his shoulder while replacing a single key in it):_ First loses one, then locks his new one in his own room. _(He locks the key safe carefully and turns back to Sherlock.)_ All in a single week, can you believe it?

_Sherlock grins sympathetically and shrugs. But as he turns away towards the inner archway, the expression on his face has changed to something very different. He looks strangely content._

 

* * *

 

 _**A long windowless corridor within the college,** _ _leading up to a wooden door marked “Junior Common Room”. Notice boards with all sorts of posters, leaflets, announcements and advertisements on them cover both walls for several yards. Sherlock is walking along the passage towards the door. When he is almost there, the door opens and So-Yun comes out. They both stop dead at the sight of each other. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth start going upwards, but his smile freezes when he sees her expression. She looks him up and down with narrowed eyes, very coldly. For a moment, they’re both on the verge of saying something, but then So-Yun changes her mind and resolutely walks straight past him, turning sideways a little and drawing in her arm so as to pointedly avoid touching him. Sherlock exhales audibly, deliberately refrains from turning and looking after her, and after a moment walks on through the open door into the Junior Common Room._

 _**The Junior Common Room** _ _is a large and - as outside, darkness has fallen - brightly lit, rather messy room with groups of sofas and squashy, ill-matched armchairs, some tables with proper chairs around them, some bookshelves, a pool table in one corner, a small fridge and a coffee machine on top of it in another, and more notice-boards on the walls. There is quite a level of noise, as the room is packed with students, some standing by the pool table, where a game is in progress, some sitting in armchairs and chatting, such as Violet Westbury’s boyfriend Simon D’Arcy and two or three of his rower friends. Violet herself is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Victor Trevor. Sebastian Wilkes is at the coffee machine, fiddling with the buttons. Close by are his Indian friend whom we saw earlier and a tall, willowy girl with long, glossy red hair, engaged in lively conversation with each other. Sherlock, in the doorway, lets his eyes travel over the whole room, then quietly closes the door behind him. The sound raises some heads among those closest to the door, and their sudden silence in turn raises more heads, until gradually, all the chatter in the room has died down and practically everyone is looking at Sherlock. It is evident from the students’ faces that the news of his dismissal from the college orchestra, and of what caused it, has already made the rounds. Some look at him merely curiously, but more look disapproving, if not hostile. Sherlock takes in this cool reception with a single glance, then starts making his way across the room as if he is alone in it, supremely unconcerned. Where he passes, people move aside, some even ostentatiously turning their backs on him, and one by one, they start talking again, the pool players resume their game, and Sebastian Wilkes returns to his efforts to make coffee. By the time Sherlock reaches a low cabinet with open compartments at the opposite end of the room, in which stacks of newspapers are stored, the atmosphere has turned back almost to normal, except that there is less noise now and the chatter seems a bit more subdued. Sherlock fishes a folded piece of grey paper out of the back pocket of his jeans - which looks very much like one of the newspaper cut-outs that he found in his mail earlier today - and then squats down to find the newspapers with the same date, presumably looking for more information on the same subject. He locates one that fits, puts it on top of the cabinet and starts flicking through it, his back to the room, seemingly oblivious to the furtive glances that people are directing at him from time to time. A moment later, Violet’s boyfriend Simon stands up rather abruptly from his armchair. Sherlock, noticing the movement from out of the corner of his eye, very deliberately closes the paper again. Then he turns to face Simon, who has made his way over to him and is now standing in front of him with his fists clenched at his sides, looking murderous. As if on command, the room falls silent again, and everyone is watching intently._

SHERLOCK _(raising his eyebrows)_ : Yes?

_Simon’s frown deepens, but he seems rather at a loss for words._

SHERLOCK: Can I help you?

SIMON _(forcing the words out through gritted teeth):_ You - you -

_Sherlock looks at him with his head to one side._

SIMON _(his voice low and tight with anger)_ : D’you have _any_ idea what you’ve done to her? Any idea at all?

_He steps closer, and with one of his big, muscular hands grabs Sherlock by the collar of his shirt. His face is a grimace of hatred._

SIMON _:_ Don’t think you’re getting away with spreading dirty lies about her like that.

_Sherlock, not yet looking particularly worried, merely glances disapprovingly at Simon’s hand. Simon, unimpressed, tightens his hold on Sherlock’s shirt with another twist and brings his face very close to that of his opponent._

SIMON _(baring his teeth in a snarl,_ _hissing with suppressed rage):_ You made her look like a cheat and a slut in front of the whole college.

SHERLOCK _(unfazed):_ She _is_ a cheat. Have you asked her?

_With a little shove, Simon lets go of Sherlock._

SIMON: And d’you know what happens to people who tell lies like that about a decent girl?

SHERLOCK: I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.

_Simon grins lopsidedly and obliges. His fist comes crashing straight into Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock's arm comes up just a split second too late to block the blow. The force of it makes him reel backwards, the back of his head bumping against the wall behind him. Blood starts welling out of his nose, the left side of his face burning like fire. Simon, recklessly pressing home his advantage over his momentarily disoriented opponent, puts both his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, pins him against the wall and, with a vicious jerk, brings his knee up to where it hurts most. Sherlock slumps forward against him with a groan, his bloody face contorted in agony. Simon steps back, and Sherlock collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, landing in a heap on the floor at Simon’s feet. A murmur rises from the ranks of the onlookers, whether of approval or concern is hard to tell, maybe both at once. Simon looks down at Sherlock, wrinkles his nose in disgust, and then, for good measure, aims another kick into the pit of his stomach, so hard that it makes Sherlock double over and retch with pain._

SIMON: Enlightened now?

_There is a collective gasp from the onlookers, and at last, one of them - Sebastian Wilkes’ Indian friend - steps forward and puts his hand on Simon’s shoulder to keep him from doing even more damage. But Simon shrugs his hand off, turns on his heel and walks straight out of the room. Sherlock is left behind, face down on the floor, coughing his heart out and dripping blood on the carpet. The other students hang around him in a silent semi-circle, staring at him in helpless fascination, eyes wide and mouths gaping, Sebastian in the front row looking like he’s going to be sick. But for the longest time, nobody comes to his aid, nobody offers to help him up._

_* * *_


	5. Chapter 5

_**The Hall.** _ _The next morning, breakfast time again. Sherlock is sitting alone at one of the long tables with a bowl of cornflakes in front of him, a spoon in one hand and an open book in the other. Sebastian Wilkes and the tall, willowy red-haired girl enter the Hall together. As they're about to pass Sherlock's place, Sherlock raises his head. Sebastian, seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, stops dead, then turns to look at him. On Sherlock’s face, the mark from Simon's blow has blossomed into a magnificent black eye, and his nose still looks slightly swollen, too. Near the left corner of his upper lip, a split has dried into a small vertical graze. He lets his eyes travel pointedly back and forth between Sebastian and the girl. A corner of his mouth twitches. Sebastian, unsmiling, points a commanding finger at him._

SEBASTIAN: Don't you _dare_ say a fucking word.

SHERLOCK: Not wasting my breath on stating the obvious.

_In spite of the attempted grin, he does look rather pitiful. After a moment, Sebastian’s expression visibly softens._

SEBASTIAN: You alright?

SHERLOCK _(in a flat voice):_ Thank you, never better.

_He returns to his book, case closed. Sebastian stands undecided for a moment. Then, seeing that sympathy isn't welcome, he tries a different approach._

SEBASTIAN: Well, you can't complain, you know. You did get it a bit wrong.

SHERLOCK _(without looking up):_ What exactly?

SEBASTIAN: Being a hero. Heroes slay the dragon and rescue the maiden, buddy. They don't slay the maiden.

_Sherlock looks up at him with an unreadable expression. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and there is suddenly an almost triumphant glint in them. It sits very strangely on his battered face. Then he shifts his gaze from Sebastian to the open doorway. Sebastian turns to look. A middle-aged, very respectable-looking lady with short iron-grey hair and large glasses – obviously a college official – is striding purposefully towards them, one of the college porters - not Mr Thompson - following at her heels. Much of the chattering in the Hall stops, and everywhere heads turn to see what's going on. The lady halts in front of Sherlock, who takes a deep breath and stands up to face her, the scraping of his chair on the floorboards over-loud in the sudden hush._

THE MASTER’S SECRETARY _(very formally)_ : Mr Holmes? The Master would like to see you. Now, if you please.

SHERLOCK _(coolly)_ : About time, too.

_He abandons his breakfast and his book, nods to Sebastian and lets himself be marched out of the Hall with his head held high, wearing the bruises on his face like a badge of honour. Fifty pairs of eyes watch him - and the two officials walking behind him, one at each shoulder - out of the door, their footsteps echoing in the tense silence. Among those eyes are Sebastian's and his girl's, she coldly indifferent, he extremely uncomfortable._

 

* * *

 

 _**The Master’s office.** _ _A cosy room steeped in academic tradition, bookshelves filled with heavy leather-bound volumes, oil paintings of gowned former Masters and distinguished Fellows on the walls. Seated at his desk is the Master of the college himself, like his room an epitome of academic respectability, a man in his late fifties with a deeply lined but not unkindly face, impeccably dressed in a dark brown tweed suit, an unlit pipe and a cup of tea on the desk in front of him. In a chair facing his desk is Violet Westbury, dressed unusually demurely in a woollen turtleneck jumper, jeans and flat shoes. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them. To her right, at a window, somewhat withdrawn, another chair has been placed at a right angle to hers and the Master’s. It is empty, but next to it stands Professor McAllister, without his reading glasses, leaning against the window sill with his arms crossed and a carefully non-committal look on his face. Nobody speaks. There is a knock on the door, and it opens to admit the Master’s secretary, and Sherlock after her. She steps aside just inside the door to let him pass into the room._

THE MASTER _(nodding to his secretary):_ Thank you, Joanne.

_She nods in return and departs, closing the door behind her. The Master turns his attention to Sherlock and regards him in silence for a moment. He frowns slightly as he sees his face, but doesn't comment. Not being invited to sit, Sherlock remains standing where he is, next to Violet’s chair, facing the Master with his hands linked before him, waiting to be addressed. Violet glances up at him, just once and very quickly, then looks down again._

THE MASTER: Well, Mr Holmes. Thank you for coming so promptly.

_Sherlock inclines his head._

THE MASTER: I’m not in the habit of beating about the bush, so I will come straight to the point. I have been informed of the allegations that you made against Miss Westbury and against Professor McAllister yesterday. You are no doubt aware that they are very serious indeed, and that such an incident – if it truly happened - would have dire consequences for the parties concerned. Such matters are not to be taken lightly, and there can be no possible justification for making such claims on the grounds of a mere personal dislike, let alone in jest. I would therefore like to give you the chance to withdraw these allegations, here and now, and to make a formal apology to the two persons here present. In which case this whole unfortunate affair will be forgotten, and no disciplinary action will be taken against you.

SHERLOCK: You are very kind, sir, but I must tell you that I maintain those allegations in full.

_Violet glances up at him again, her eyes slightly red but tearless, her face mask-like. After a short silence, the Master folds his hands upon the desk._

THE MASTER _(calmly):_ Then I assume you have your reasons for doing so. Let me hear them.

SHERLOCK: With pleasure. _(H_ _e looks as if he means that quite literally. He comes to life, abandoning his stiff posture, and speaks calmly but with great confidence.)_ Violet Westbury was in Professor McAllister’s room on Tuesday afternoon from shortly before four o’clock to nine minutes after, and during this time, without his knowledge or sanction, accessed his computer. If you will make enquiries with the IT department, you will find a record of a person having logged on to that computer at precisely 15:57, and logged off again at 16:09.

THE MASTER: What makes you think it was her and not Professor McAllister himself?

SHERLOCK: He was not in his room at that time, as I and thirty-seven other members of this college will be happy to attest. He was where he was supposed to be, in the rehearsal room. But _she_ wasn’t. She turned up almost fifteen minutes late, at around a quarter past four. As Professor McAllister will certainly remember, not having been exactly amused by it at the time.

THE MASTER: That doesn’t prove she was in his room. She could have been anywhere.

SHERLOCK: She is the only person apart from Professor McAllister himself who had access to that room.

THE MASTER: How?

SHERLOCK: She had a key.

_Violet raises her head again, now staring at Sherlock in genuine surprise. McAllister, from his place at the window, does the same. The Master, though outwardly impassive, shifts in his chair._

THE MASTER: And how did she come by it?

SHERLOCK: If you check with the porters, you will find that Professor McAllister reported his own key missing only last week. It apparently found its way into Miss Westbury’s hands. At least that’s where it was last Thursday morning, when she was on her way back from her tutorial.

 _**Flashback** _ _to Violet walking out of the doorway to Staircase B and marching down the court past So-Yun and Sherlock on their bench. A close-up on her tightly closed hand reveals a key ring protruding from it._

SHERLOCK: She had the key, and she had the nerve to use it. There’s more resolve in her than one would suspect. _(With a wry smile)_ At least when it comes to gaining an unfair advantage over her fellow students.

THE MASTER: Is that what you are insinuating she was doing on Professor McAllister's computer?

SHERLOCK: Yes. I strongly suspect that she tried to find something there that would tell her what to expect in the upcoming exams, if not the exam questions themselves.

_Violet closes her eyes._

THE MASTER _(after a short pause, almost gently)_ : Miss Westbury. Are we to take your silence as a confession?

_Violet remains silent. The Master sighs._

THE MASTER _(turning to Professor McAllister):_ What do you say to all of this?

McALLISTER _(pushing himself off the window-sill)_ : Well, after hearing Mr Holmes set out the case so eloquently, I’m afraid I can believe that it is quite within her scope.

_Violet raises her head sharply and turns towards McAllister. The mask of indifference slips off her face, and she looks dismayed._

McALLISTER _(coldly)_ : As her tutor, I can attest to the poor quality of her academic achievements. As a performer, she is certainly above average, but her analytical skills and her knowledge of the historical and theoretical aspects of her subject leave much to be desired. She has been struggling with her coursework all year. I do not find it hard to believe, although it disappoints and saddens me of course, that she would resort to desperate measures in order to improve her chances on her exams. _(He glances at Sherlock for a fraction of a second.)_ I’m sure that if her room was searched, evidence would be discovered that she did indeed steal data from my computer that pertains – or that she thought pertained – to the upcoming exams.

VIOLET _(flaring up in sudden indignation):_ My room? No! There is _nothing_ there. Nothing!

_The Master looks at her in surprise. McAllister snorts derisively. Sherlock smiles._

SHERLOCK: Now isn’t that an interesting reaction?

THE MASTER _(irritated):_ Interesting?

SHERLOCK: Highly interesting. Think about it. Only a moment ago, I accused her of trying to steal exam questions from her tutor’s computer, and she managed to sit through that with perfect composure and never a word in her own defence. But the moment Professor McAllister suggests that the proof of this is to be found in her room, she -

McALLISTER _(impatiently)_ : She denies it. Of course!

SHERLOCK: No. She's not denying anything. She's telling us the truth, or rather the truth as she knows it.

VIOLET: I told you, there is nothing there!

SHERLOCK _(to_ _Violet, meeting her eyes for the first time in the scene):_ But in that you’re wrong, Violet. There is. _(She opens her mouth, but he talks over her)_ No, I believe you when you say that you brought nothing there from Professor McAllister’s room. _(Addressing the Master)_ As the IT records will show, there was in fact nothing taken from that computer. There was no memory stick connected to it, nor any other external device on which data could have been taken away. Neither was the printer used. And twelve minutes is really not enough time to simply memorise a substantial amount of complex information, at least not for someone with Miss Westbury’s mental capacities and the added complication of extreme stress. And yet, I share Professor McAllister’s conviction that if you went up there now and had her room searched, you would definitely find something, either in digital form or on paper, to suggest that such a theft has indeed taken place.

VIOLET: What? No! If I didn’t take it, how can it be there?

SHERLOCK _(turning to face McAllister)_ : Because _you_ put it there.

_A heavy silence. The Master frowns deeply. Violet gapes at Sherlock, her eyes huge, then turns towards McAllister with the same expression of utter astonishment. McAllister opens his mouth, then closes it again. After a moment, he exhales audibly and addresses the Master in a calm tone._

McALLISTER: Sir, this is ridiculous.

SHERLOCK _(drily)_ : I agree.

_The Master directs his frown at him._

SHERLOCK: It _is_ quite ridiculous for a man of his position and abilities, yes. But unfortunately that didn't stop him doing it.

McALLISTER _(rounding on Sherlock, aggressively):_ When? How?

SHERLOCK _(unfazed)_ : Yesterday afternoon, around five. You were quick, I almost missed it.

THE MASTER _(holding up his hand and speaking with great authority):_ I utterly fail to see a reason why Professor McAllister should have done such a thing. Before you continue making such accusations, Mr Holmes, I must insist that you clarify this point first.

SHERLOCK: He did it to make sure that Miss Westbury got expelled.

VIOLET: _He_ wanted me expelled?

SHERLOCK _(to Violet)_ : Yes, and I think you know why.

THE MASTER _(quietly):_ Why?

SHERLOCK _(his eyes on McAllister, coldly)_ : To punish her for not dancing to his tune.

McALLISTER _(to Sherlock, sharply)_ : What are you talking about?

SHERLOCK: Oh, you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about. _(To the Master, in an off-hand tone)_ Although I can’t rule out that she’d also simply started to get on his nerves. She _can_ be a bit annoying sometimes.

McALLISTER _(turning to the Master for support):_ Sir, I must protest, you can’t –

_The Master holds up his hand again to cut him off, not unkindly but firmly._

THE MASTER _(to Sherlock):_ What do you mean when you say she would not dance to his tune?

_Sherlock opens his mouth to reply._

VIOLET _(speaking up suddenly, in an unexpectedly strong voice)_ : No, don't say it.

_Everyone looks at her in surprise._

VIOLET _(firmly)_ : I want to say it myself.

_Sherlock makes a little gesture with his hand, inviting her to go ahead. Violet rises from her chair to face McAllister fully, looking suddenly quite mature and rather beautiful in her grim determination. She takes a deep breath._

VIOLET: I'm done with covering up for you. I know what kind of man you are, and I don't care who else knows it. I've got nothing to lose any more, but you're not going to get away with what you've done if I can help it. _(Addressing the Master)_ Everything Sherlock has told you about what I did, every word of it is true. I don't know how he knows it, but it is. _(She swallows, but then forges ahead bravely.)_ I was worried sick about failing my exams. Professor McAllister knew about the panic I was in, and he teased me about it at every opportunity. Then one day, last week, I couldn't stand it any more, and I flew in his face when he kept me behind after a tutorial, told him to leave me alone, and that - _(She turns back towards McAllister, her voice wavering slightly for the first time.)_ \- that was when he made me an offer.

THE MASTER _(gently)_ : What offer?

SHERLOCK: He gave her one key, and offered her another.

THE MASTER _(slightly irritated):_ Please don’t speak in riddles.

SHERLOCK: He gave her the key to his room – as I said, he had a duplicate issued to him shortly before, on the pretence that he had lost his own – and promised to also give her the password to his computer, on which he said he kept the exam questions, in exchange -

_He glances at Violet as if asking for permission to continue, but she is still glaring at McAllister and doesn’t notice._

SHERLOCK _(curtly):_ \- in exchange for something that she was not willing to give. _(With a very brief, humourless smile)_ At least not to him.

VIOLET _(her eyes still on McAllister, quietly but with her voice full of disgust):_ He gave me the key to his room, and he told me that within a week, I would be there and – no, I don’t want to say that. But it made me want to spit in his face there and then, only I didn’t dare. I wish I had.

_McAllister stares at her, stunned by the formidable force of her anger. The Master exhales heavily and leans back in his chair._

THE MASTER: Is this true, David?

_McAllister doesn't reply immediately._

THE MASTER _(sternly):_ Is it true?

_There is a moment in which McAllister seems to be engaged in an intense inner struggle, but he manages to emerge from it with his face composed into an expression of tolerant condescension._

McALLISTER _(to the Master):_ Sir, I believe we must make allowances for Miss Westbury’s current emotional turmoil. Having just been found out in such a misdeed, she naturally tries to lay the blame on someone else, even though the attempt must appear absurd to us _. (Shifting his gaze to Sherlock)_ But why this young man should choose to ally himself to such a misdirected cause and back up such a fairytale is beyond my comprehension.

SHERLOCK _(in a sudden burst of righteous anger, rather loudly):_ Because her fairytale is the _truth_ , and you can’t be allowed to do things like that, now, can you?

McALLISTER _(flaring up in his turn, equally loudly):_ And who made you the judge of what I can or can’t do?

THE MASTER _(in a thundering voice)_ : If you please!

_Sherlock and McAllister glare at each other, but they both fall silent._

THE MASTER _(drily):_ Thank you.

McALLISTER _(after a moment, shifting his gaze from Sherlock to the Master, still in a slightly irritable tone):_ Even if there was any truth in what Miss Westbury has just told us about me suggesting such a bargain to her – it would have been null and void the moment she found that other way to access my computer. After she had done it, and after her misconduct had been exposed so publicly by the very same person who is now playing her advocate, why would _I_ still go to the lengths of planting any incriminating evidence of it in her room?  
  
SHERLOCK _(back in his former tone of calm confidence)_ : Because you could not be absolutely certain that she really would be disgraced and expelled as long as there was no proof of her guilt. There would be an enquiry, of course, and it would come out that your computer had been used at that time by someone other than yourself. But you were her tutor, she came to your room at least once a week for her tutorial, so the mere indentations of her heels on your carpet would have been just as inconclusive towards establishing her presence during those particular minutes as a whiff of her perfume on the air would have been. _(He sniffs.)_ “Flower” by Kenzo. Not that exclusive anyway. Even her DNA on your computer keyboard would not argue any illicit activities on her part - you might have let her use it on some earlier occasion. So you had to make sure that there would be clear and irrefutable evidence of her guilt, and you did.

McALLISTER _(exasperated)_ : Why? Why would I care about her being expelled or not?

SHERLOCK _(still calmly, but now with an edge of contempt in his voice):_ Because if you could not break her in one way, you had to find another. She had not only refused you, she had even managed to turn the tables and get the better of you. And that was something that you couldn’t bear. She wasn’t supposed to beat you. She was young, inexperienced, impressionable, intellectually inferior to you by a long way and scared to death about failing her exams – your perfect victim. Had she come to you of her own accord, batting her eyelashes and trying to ingratiate herself with the maestro by those very same means that you later suggested to her, you would have scorned her and turned her away. But once you realised that she wanted nothing from you but the solid and factual help and advice that any decent teacher owes his student, and that she, happy to hold hands with her boring, ordinary boyfriend, was not interested in you in any other way, she became a challenge, and you set out to bend her to your will. _(Narrowing his eyes, in a tone of deepest disgust)_ Because you don’t want willing submission, do you? You want to watch your victims panic and squirm and writhe and wriggle, and you live for that moment when they finally cave in.

_The Master is sitting in stony silence, his eyes fixed on his colleague, his face inscrutable. Violet is listening with the palms of her hands pressed against her cheeks, as if to physically contain a rush of emotion. McAllister has paled visibly, his eyes growing wider and wider as Sherlock levels his accusations at him, and now his eyes start flickering back and forth between Sherlock and the Master._

SHERLOCK: Anyone who has ever played under you knows how you walk all over people just for the pleasure of it. That’s the way your mind works. _(Dismissively)_ Maybe you can’t even help it. There’s probably a medical term for it that makes it sound somehow more excusable. But that is why you couldn’t let the one girl who would not play that game with you get away with it.

_There is a long moment of silence, in which the muscles in McAllister’s face work furiously for a while, until he once again manages to force them into a mask-like calm._

McALLISTER _(appealing to the Master)_ : Sir, there is not a shred of evidence to support this preposterous theory. _(Getting louder, his anger showing through)_ Even if we assume for a moment that I had indeed such a reason for wanting to plant documents or data in Miss Westbury’s room - _(rounding on Sherlock again, almost shouting now) -_ where’s your bloody _proof?_

SHERLOCK _(unimpressed)_ : I saw you.

McALLISTER _(sarcastically)_ : Oh, you saw me in her room, did you? Where were you, hiding under her bed?

SHERLOCK: I saw you returning from it. Yesterday, shortly before five, you borrowed a master key from the porter, pretending - as he will attest - that you had locked your own key in your room and needed to retrieve it. You did go directly to your room at first then, in case he should be watching and wondering.

 _**Flashback** _ _to the view of Professor McAllister's back as he limps across the court towards Staircase B on the afternoon before, seen through the open inner archway of the gatehouse._

SHERLOCK: But when you went back to the porter’s lodge to return the master key, you came by a different way, down Staircase A, on which Miss Westbury’s room is located.

THE MASTER: How do you know that he took that route?

SHERLOCK: Because it had started to rain. You'll remember it was quite a downpour. If he had come back directly from his own room across the court, the shortest and quickest way, his jacket and his hair, or at least his hood, would have been wet. They weren't.

 _**Flashback** _ _to Professor McAllister standing in front of the porter's desk. His jacket and his hair are indeed dry._

SHERLOCK: The only route from his room to the porter’s lodge that is under cover throughout requires going up Staircase B to the second floor, letting yourself through the door in the bricked-up wall that leads into the girls' wing – easy, with a master key - and then coming down Staircase A as the girls usually do. All the time in the world for a little stop in one of the girls’ rooms.

McALLISTER: So what if I did come back that way? _(To the Master)_ As he says, it was raining heavily. I wanted to keep dry.

SHERLOCK _(smoothly):_ Why would a man with a walking disability and a rainproof jacket bother to climb two steep flights of stairs, pass through a long corridor in a part of the college where his presence, if detected, would certainly raise eyebrows, and then climb down two more flights of stairs, just to avoid the trouble of putting up his hood? Only a moment later, you walked out into the rain just like that, and never seemed to mind.

 _**Flashback** _ _to Professor McAllister, turning away from the porter's desk, putting up his hood, readjusting the bicycle clips on his trousers, and resolutely stepping out of the college gates into the pouring rain outside._

_Back in the Master's office, the Master has leant forward in his chair, and regards McAllister with a disillusioned, almost sad expression on his face._

THE MASTER _(very quietly):_ Why indeed, David. Why indeed.

_McAllister meets the Master’s eyes and shakes his head, again and again and again, but the Master’s expression does not change._

THE MASTER: Shall we go up to Miss Westbury’s room now and find what’s there, or would you prefer to spare us the trouble?

_McAllister doesn’t reply. The muscles in his face are working again, but his formidable self-control is crumbling. After a moment, he lowers his head and turns away to the empty chair that had been placed for him by the window, sinks down in it and covers his eyes with one of his carefully manicured hands. The Master turns away from him with a deep sigh, back towards the two students standing in front of his desk, shoulder to shoulder, a pair of very unlikely allies, united for a moment in their common cause._

THE MASTER: Well. This certainly puts a very different face on the whole matter. Although I must admit, Mr Holmes, that I still don’t quite see why it was necessary to expose Miss Westbury in such a way as you did yesterday, in front of so many of your fellow students and with such uncourteous words.

VIOLET _(quietly, but still with an angry edge in her voice)_ : Yes, I think I would like to know that, too.

SHERLOCK _(to Violet)_ : Imagine for a moment what would have happened if I hadn’t done it.

VIOLET _(with a very brief, mirthless laugh):_ Then I would still be able to look people in the eye?

SHERLOCK: No. You would have given in to him. _(She opens her mouth to disagree, but he cuts her off.)_ Don’t kid yourself, Violet. Sooner or later, you would have. I knew, I saw, like everyone else did, what state you were in when your one weapon against him had turned out to be useless, when you had discovered that there was nothing on his computer to help you. You had put yourself terribly in the wrong, all to no avail. You lost your nerve completely then, you were going to pieces before our eyes. So I took pity on you and put an end to it.

VIOLET _(aghast):_ Pity? You call that _pity?_

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug)_ : I won’t insist on that particular term if you can think of a better one. And besides, I _was_ getting a bit annoyed at you butchering Mozart, too. But on the whole, rather finish it quick and clean than let him win, wouldn’t you say? _(To the Master)_ I’m sure she’ll agree, once she’s thought it through. _(With a complacent smile)_ And even apart from those considerations, someone had to drive _him_ over the edge, too, and make him condemn himself by his own actions.

VIOLET _(incredulously):_ No, wait - are you telling me that you dragged me through the mud like that just to get at _him_ , when you knew all along that I wasn’t -  
  
SHERLOCK _(impatiently)_ : Yes, of course. It was a necessary condition for success.

_Violet just gasps, at a loss for words._

SHERLOCK _(to the Master):_ Or would _you_ have preferred to worm all this out of him bit by bit in a lengthy and probably very unpleasant formal enquiry, if ever? I thought we might get there a lot quicker. _(Lightly, almost flippantly)_ And didn’t it work beautifully?

THE MASTER _(drily):_ That is maybe not exactly the word I would have chosen. I grant you that it was efficient.

_Sherlock beams at him as if he has just been paid the highest compliment that he can imagine. The Master clears his throat._

THE MASTER: Well, then there remains only one question that still requires an answer, as far as I’m concerned. _(With a hint of irony, but no ill-will)_ And since you, Mr Holmes, have proved yourself so adept at solving riddles and providing answers to questions that we others would probably never even have thought of asking, I’m sure I can turn once more to you for enlightenment.

_Sherlock makes a little gesture with his hand, as if to say “ask away”._

THE MASTER: How did Miss Westbury technically manage to gain access to Professor McAllister’s computer in the first place? As you said, his account, like everyone else’s, would have been protected by a password, one of those ridiculously long strings of letters and numbers that no-one can ever remember. I hardly know my own. Are you telling me that she just made a couple of lucky guesses and hit on it by chance?

SHERLOCK _(generously conceding the point):_ I’m afraid, sir, that this is the one question that I have not yet managed to find a satisfactory answer to. _(Confidently)_ But she most certainly could not have figured it out by chance. It would have required extraordinary technical abilities to either work it out by computation or to bypass the password barrier altogether, so we will have to assume that –

_At his side, Violet shifts. The movement arrests Sherlock’s attention, and he glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She meets his gaze with such an unexpectedly grave look that he baulks._

SHERLOCK: – she –

_He does a double take. Violet is still fixing him intently with her eyes, and we can literally see the wheelworks of Sherlock’s brain kick into motion behind his forehead, frantically trying to work out its significance._

THE MASTER: That she – what?

SHERLOCK _(hesitantly):_ \- had help.

_He turns fully towards Violet, frowns, and a split second later, comprehension dawns on his face. His eyes grow wide, and the full meaning of his own words hits him like a blow, derailing him completely. Too late, far too late to take them back, he blinks, once, twice – and then averts his face and lowers his eyes in bitter regret._

VIOLET _(breaking the silence almost gently):_ No.

_Sherlock’s eyes fly open again, staring at her in utter disbelief of what he’s hearing._

VIOLET _(to the Master, calmly):_ I had no help. I worked it out myself. I’m – I’m good with computers.

_The Master folds his arms and leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Violet stands her ground bravely. After a moment, the Master clears his throat again._

THE MASTER _(to Sherlock):_ Then I suppose there is no point either in asking _you_ , Mr Holmes, how _you_ came by such detailed knowledge of what happened on Professor McAllister’s computer on Tuesday afternoon.

_Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but then meets the Master’s eyes with creditable composure._

SHERLOCK: I’m good with computers, too.

THE MASTER _(drily):_ Well. Discovering unexpected talents in my students is part of what makes my work so rewarding.

 _He straightens up in his chair and picks up the telephone_ _._

THE MASTER: Joanne? Please ask the Head Porter to step up here for a moment. And anyone from IT who's free. _(To Violet and Sherlock)_ And in the meantime, I must ask the two of you to wait outside until I let you know my decision. Miss Westbury, please be so kind as to leave the key to your room here with me.

_Violet readily complies with his request, putting her keys down onto the desk. The Master acknowledges the gesture with a nod, then turns to Sherlock._

THE MASTER _(now in a tone of almost paternal concern)_ _:_ And by the way, what happened to your face?

_There is a short pause, in which Sherlock very deliberately refrains from even so much as glancing at Violet._

SHERLOCK: Rowing accident. _(He smiles wryly.)_

 

* * *

 

 _**A view of the corridor outside the Master’s office.** _ _It is brightly lit by morning sunlight coming in through a window, and deserted. The door of the Master’s office opens, and we see Sherlock holding it open for Violet, who walks out first. He follows her and quietly closes the door behind him. Violet advances a few steps into the corridor, then stops and turns back towards him._

VIOLET _(resigned, but without the slightest hint of sarcasm):_ Well. Thank you, I suppose.

SHERLOCK _(frowning at her, honestly at a loss):_ Thank you? Why? I've just got you expelled.

VIOLET: I meant thank you for not peaching – you know.

SHERLOCK: Oh, that. I suspect I was only returning a favour.

VIOLET: You suspect, or you know?

SHERLOCK: I know now.

_Violet sighs deeply._

VIOLET: I didn't lie because he's your friend, though. I did it for him. I do like him. He's – he's clever like you, but without all the - _(She makes a random little gesture with her hand.)_

SHERLOCK _(almost gently):_ All the what?

VIOLET _(avoiding his eyes):_ Dunno. _(She sighs again.)_ I've lied so much over this past week, to so many people, adding just one more lie didn't seem to matter. But this is the only one I don't feel guilty about. _(In an attempt to sound light-hearted)_ A good one to end on, isn't it?

SHERLOCK: You make that sound very final.

VIOLET: It is final.

SHERLOCK: They might give you a second chance. You know, mitigating circumstances and all that.

VIOLET _(the look of grim determination that we saw earlier back on her face)_ : I don't want it. I'm leaving. Tomorrow, if they let me. And believe it or not, I'll be glad to be going.

_She walks over to the window, where a wooden bench has been built into the recess, and sits down on it, hugging herself as if she's cold, looking down at her shoes._

VIOLET: Do you ever feel like you don't belong here? Oh, of course you don't. Brains like yours, this place must feel like heaven. _(Sherlock makes a little move as if to speak, but she continues too quickly.)_ But it never was for me. From the first day on, I was like a fish out of water. The way people talked, the way they all knew stuff, all they'd read and all they expected me to have read, too... _(A tone of despair steals into her voice.)_ I was so far out of my depth. Like I'd been thrown into some sort of bad dream where you keep trying to catch a train but something always holds you back, no matter how you struggle... _(A shudder passes over her. She bravely tries to fight it down, but now her voice is shaking badly, too.)_ I just wanted to make music. That's all I ever wanted. Just to play. _(She sniffs.)_ I never cared about the books and the theory. But then my parents and my teachers and everyone at home put this idea in my head… and I didn't know better, I thought they were right, I was flattered, but once I was here -

_She breaks off and buries her face in her hands. Sherlock looks down at her bowed head for a moment, then walks over to the bench and very gingerly sits down next to her, not close enough to touch but close enough for her to be aware of his presence. She cries quietly, and he waits patiently for her to stop. There is a long moment of silence. At last, when she has calmed down a little, Violet raises her head, her eyes still swimming in tears, her make-up running._

VIOLET _(searching his face)_ : You're strangely quiet.

SHERLOCK: What should I say?

VIOLET: Dunno. _(In a very weak attempt at sarcasm)_ But you hate me. You're not going to let me go from here without a proper parting shot, are you? _(Her voice is shaking again, but she grits her teeth.)_ Round it off nicely, come on. You always had the last word with _him_ , don't make me feel that I deserve less than he does.

SHERLOCK _(sincerely)_ : I don't hate you. I probably did, but I know better now.

VIOLET _(smiling through her tears):_ You're not doing your best. Try again.

SHERLOCK _(straightening up)_ : Well, if you insist -

VIOLET _(taking a deep breath, steeling herself for the onslaught):_ I do.

SHERLOCK: Then you already know what to do, don't you? _(Sententiously)_ Embrace your mediocrity.

_Violet stares at him. Then she pulls a face in amused disbelief._

VIOLET: Says who?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Says the man from the third desk in the second violins, who knows what he’s talking about.

VIOLET _(starting to giggle):_ The same who thinks he can improve Handel?

SHERLOCK: Well, yes, maybe now and –

VIOLET _(holding up her hand in mock protest, now laughing outright):_ No! Don’t spoil it, please. I want to remember that to the end of my days - you, of all people, confessing to mediocrity.

SHERLOCK _(in mock resignation):_ If it makes you happy.

VIOLET _(sincerely):_ It _is_ a relief.

SHERLOCK _(dead serious for a moment):_ You know what? I agree. _(With a sudden grin)_ Just don't tell anyone.

_He snorts, and now they’re both laughing, he biting his lip and she with her hand clamped over her mouth in a joint but useless – and soon abandoned - effort to keep it quiet. After a while, calming down, Violet sighs weakly, runs her hand over her eyes and nods towards the closed door of the Master’s office._

VIOLET: What d'you think's gonna happen to _him_ now?

SHERLOCK _(after a moment):_ Who cares.

_They crack up again hopelessly, and they laugh and laugh, both of them silly with relief, giggling away together on their bench under the window until we fade to black._

 

_* * *_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Sherlock's room in the college.** _ _Late afternoon on the same day. It’s a very small room with a single window, a narrow bed, a desk, a number of bookshelves and a washbasin in a corner, and it looks even smaller than it is for being so cluttered. The shelves are crammed full to overflowing, and there are books and papers and scientific journals and sheet music on every available surface, including the floor and the foot of the bed. Even the recess of the boarded-up fireplace is filled with stacks of books. The only decorations on the walls – apart from a large pin board covered with schedules and timetables and data sheets and notes three deep - are the periodic table of the elements that Sherlock will still have on his bedroom wall ten years later, and a framed reproduction of a portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach. Flopped down on his stomach diagonally across Sherlock's bed is Victor Trevor, his head and shoulders hanging over the edge, one arm stretched out towards a chessboard that has been set up on Sherlock's old school trunk, which appears to double (or rather triple) as bedside cabinet, coffee table and laundry basket all at once, since there are – among a dozen other things - an alarm clock and two mugs of tea on it, and a sock hanging out from under the closed lid. On the other side of the trunk, Sherlock is sitting on the floor with his back against the side of his desk and his knees drawn up so as to fit into the narrow space at all._

VICTOR _(moving a black chess piece):_ And - ?

_Sherlock frowns at the board, on which there are few pieces left standing, more black than white. All the others are littered around the edges of the board like dead soldiers on a battlefield. Sherlock reaches out and moves a white piece. Only a split second later, he claps his hand to his forehead and grimaces. With a humourless grin, Victor moves another black piece and with the tip of his index finger very gently topples Sherlock's king over. Then he pushes himself up into a sitting position on the bed, legs crossed._

VICTOR: Right. I want to know what the hell we're doing here.

SHERLOCK: Playing chess?

VICTOR _(testily):_ _You_ said you needed to talk to me, and now all we do is sit here and play a bloody game?

_Sherlock shrugs and takes a sip of his tea._

VICTOR: Why do you keep playing chess with me anyway? You never win. Never. And you never learn, which is worse. _(Didactically)_ I'll tell _you_ something. You'll never be more than just ordinarily decent at this game if you don't learn to look to your own defences. _(Sherlock opens his mouth to disagree, but Victor cuts him off.)_ It’s all very noble and valiant how you rush for the opposing king with everything you command, but you’re never going to protect your own with barely any of your pieces left standing. _(He picks up one of the captured white pieces – a knight – and turns it in his hand.)_ Some of these are not expendable.

SHERLOCK _(coolly):_ Some are.

VICTOR: And you trust yourself to know the difference?

SHERLOCK _(after a moment's pause)_ : On a chessboard, or elsewhere?

VICTOR: Both.

_There is a tense silence while they look at each other intently._

SHERLOCK: Do _you_ trust me to know it?

_Victor stands his ground for quite a while, then folds his hands in his lap and looks down._

VICTOR _(unhappily):_ I wish I could.

_Sherlock exhales impatiently and shakes his head._

SHERLOCK: Victor, it’s not like -

VICTOR _(twisting his hands in his lap, desperately):_ Just tell me that I _can_ , will you?

_There is another silence. Then Sherlock pushes himself forward onto his knees. With his elbows propped on the trunk between them, he leans towards his friend, and from that level looks up into Victor’s face, waiting patiently until Victor is ready to meet his eyes again. When he does -_

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ You can. So help me God, you can.

 

_* * *_

 

 _**A view of a back wall of one of the college buildings,** _ _lit in mild, warm evening light. On the top floor, just below the tiled roof, a window opening has been enlarged into a doorway with an ugly white-painted metal door in it and a fire escape built onto it, the iron staircase zig-zagging down to ground level. On the slope of the roof above the fire exit, Sherlock and Victor are sitting side by side in companionable silence, passing a hand-rolled cigarette back and forth and looking out westwards over the river and The Backs, the bulk of the University Library tower visible in the distance._

SHERLOCK _(exhaling a long plume of smoke and looking down at the cigarette between his fingers):_ This is _quite_ extraordinary. Where did you get it? _(He glances at Victor, who raises his eyebrows.)_ Alright. I never asked.

VICTOR: Special blend for medicinal purposes.

SHERLOCK _(handing him the joint)_ : Really?

VICTOR _(taking a drag):_ No. But I figured you could do with it _. (Sherlock frowns at him.)_ You climbed up here like an old man, my friend. Don’t tell me it isn’t helping.

_Sherlock grimaces._

VICTOR: So. Now that _he’s_ out, does that mean you’re back in?

SHERLOCK: No idea.

VICTOR _(in a tone of surprise)_ : Meaning you don’t care?

SHERLOCK _(with a wry smile)_ : Meaning I don’t suppose I’ll be greatly missed.

VICTOR: Got a point there. I would, though. Care, I mean.

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Don’t bother.

_Victor shrugs. Sherlock leans back against the roof – more slowly and carefully than he normally would – and looks up at the sky with one hand behind his head. After a moment, he abruptly turns his face back towards his friend._

SHERLOCK: Did you mean what you just said?

VICTOR _(with exasperated affection)_ : Of course, you idiot.

SHERLOCK _(with a sudden smile)_ : Alright.

_Victor smiles back at him, the first true smile we’ve seen from him since this whole affair blew up in their faces. They pass the joint back and forth again._

VICTOR: By the way. There’s one more thing I’d still like to know.

SHERLOCK: Yes?

VICTOR: How the _fuck_ did you know that someone had been on his computer at all?

SHERLOCK: Consider it a friendly greeting from the Classics and History of Art department over at The Other Place.

VICTOR: The Other Place? _(He frowns.)_ Been sleeping with the enemy, have you?

_Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and screws up his face in a grimace of disgust._

SHERLOCK: Unsay that, _please._

_Victor just looks amused. Sherlock struggles back into a sitting position and holds out his hand._

SHERLOCK: Give it here, quick.

_Victor obliges, still grinning. Sherlock takes a deep drag and shudders. Victor laughs._

VICTOR: Sorry.

_They both look out again over the city and into the setting sun. The evening light, reflected on the facades of the surrounding buildings in a warm glow, makes the river sparkle, and the fresh spring leafage in the park-like gardens across the water lights up like a green-gold fire. Victor receives the joint back from Sherlock, takes a pull and sighs._

VICTOR: I’m gonna miss this place.

SHERLOCK: Going away for the holidays?

VICTOR: Yep.

SHERLOCK: Summer job?

VICTOR: Kaspersky Lab.

_Sherlock looks impressed._

VICTOR:Hong Kong.

SHERLOCK: Nice.

VICTOR _(with a sidelong glance at his friend)_ : And I have a feeling that I might not be coming back.

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, rather stupidly)_ : What?

VICTOR _(with a shrug):_ Well, you know. It’s what I like to do best. And the pay is princely. What do I need a degree for if I can have it all now?

_Sherlock doesn’t reply. He turns back towards the setting sun, his face bathed in the golden glow, his bruises burning dark red, his eyes fixed on some point in the far distance, beyond the roofs and towers of the city. After a moment, Victor touches him gently on the elbow with the back of his hand._

VICTOR: Here. The rest is yours.

_Sherlock takes the joint from him, their fingers brushing against each other. He takes a couple of drags, blowing out smoke, his eyes still fixed on something that only he can see, hardly blinking. Victor is watching him silently, looking slightly guilty. After a while, Sherlock looks down pensively at the stub of the joint in his hand._

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ You were right. It does help.

 

* * *

 

 _**West Road Concert Hall, Cambridge.** _ _A long shot of the light brown wood-and-brick interior with its rows upon rows of red seats, brightly and festively lit for the end of term concert, every last seat occupied, the orchestra on the stage in the full swing of the final movement of Mozart’s Flute Concerto No. 2 in D major. On the rostrum, an extremely competent-looking middle-aged lady, short spiky hair dyed deep red, square black glasses, is conducting the orchestra with great verve, translating her energy and enthusiasm effortlessly to the musicians. Next to her, an Asian girl in an evening dress is in the soloist’s place, her fingers flying up and down the keys and tone holes of her flute with dizzying speed and flawless accuracy. And at the third desk in the second violins, Sherlock and Victor – in smart black suits and bow ties, like all the other players – are happily embracing their mediocrity, sweeping through their parts with exuberant, almost contagious joie de vivre, all the more because they know it is the last time for both of them. Their bows rise and fall in perfect unison as we watch them wind their way to the climax of the finale and the very satisfying final chord. When all the players, at a sign of their stand-in conductor, rise as one to acknowledge the thunderous applause, Sherlock and Victor, standing side by side with their instruments in their hands, exchange a look, and first Victor and then Sherlock breaks into a smile of the sort that one rarely sees except on the faces of children. The image freezes on that shared smile, and the noise of the audience’s applause slowly fades to the background._

JOHN _(voice-over, very gently):_ So, what became of him?

_The image dissolves to -_

_**The present. 221B Baker Street. The living room.** _ _Outside, night has fallen, snow still swirling past the windows. Sherlock has walked over to the right hand window to look out into the darkness, and John has turned sideways in his chair to follow him with his eyes, his chin resting on his hand._

JOHN: You never mention him.

_Sherlock glances very briefly at his friend, then turns back towards the window, and his expression becomes rather fixed._

SHERLOCK: Lost touch.

_John opens his mouth as if to enquire further, but, seeing Sherlock’s face, thinks better of it. The silence threatens to stretch uncomfortably between them when suddenly, there is a loud clanking noise from the direction of John’s armchair, and we see Mycroft’s glass on the floor, rolling across the carpet and soaking it with the remainder of its contents. John and Sherlock both whirl around to look at Mycroft in alarm. He is sitting utterly still, with his hand dangling limply over the armrest, his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open, obviously asleep. John exhales sharply in relief._

SHERLOCK: Aw, how sweet is that. I’ve bored him to sleep with all the human touch.

_John gets up and approaches their guest, raising his hand as if to lay it on Mycroft’s arm. Before he can do so -_

SHERLOCK _(very loudly):_ Mycroft! Wakey-wakey! Aliens have landed in St. James’s Park, Father Christmas has been arrested at Heathrow with a sack full of Semtex, and you’re asleep in Doctor Watson’s chair!

_Mycroft gives a start, opens his eyes and shudders, looking completely befuddled._

SHERLOCK _(at a more appropriate volume):_ Well, actually, it’s just that we’d like to go on putting up the fairy lights now, and your presence seems to be somewhat prejudicial to activities of that sort.

MYCROFT _(slowly recovering his senses):_ I truly appreciate the compliment, Sherlock, but it’s really not necessary. _(He blinks repeatedly.)_

_John bends down to pick up the empty glass. Mycroft braces himself, checks the time on his pocket watch and stands up._

MYCROFT: Well – _(squaring his shoulders)_ – time to go. Thank you for the drink, John. _(To Sherlock)_ And for a very instructive story.

_Sherlock sketches an ironic little bow. John’s eyes go back and forth between the brothers, slightly puzzled by Mycroft’s choice of words. Mycroft takes a few steps towards the living room door, then stops again as if he’s just remembered something. He gestures towards Sherlock’s computer._

MYCROFT: Would you like to keep trying, or shall I take it back with me now?

SHERLOCK: What? Oh. No, you take it. _(He walks over and disconnects the memory stick.)_ Catch. _(He tosses it to Mycroft, who catches it, but only just.)_ The solution is on there. Tell your cryptography friends Merry Christmas from me, and next time let _them_ decide what to run by me or not. _(With a smirk)_ Anyone with a Maths A level and a pocket calculator could have worked that one out in two or three hours, Mycroft. Unbreakable, indeed. _(To John, pointing a finger at his thunderstruck brother and rolling his eyes)_ Classics and History of Art.

_John politely tries but fails to suppress a grin._

MYCROFT _(with a grudging smile):_ Oh yes, the benefits of knowing one's limits. _(Once more, his smile assumes a sinister quality.)_ But I'm glad you don't see me as a calculating person. That would never do. _(He walks forward, takes his coat and scarf from the hook behind the door and nods to his hosts.)_ Good evening to you both.

_He exits the room, glancing upwards critically as he passes through the door. Sherlock and John, standing side by side, watch him out of the room in silence, Sherlock with his lips curled in a sneer, John frowning up at the door lintel. When Mycroft can be heard hurrying down the stairs -_

JOHN: Please tell me there was never going to be any mistletoe.

SHERLOCK _(pulling a face):_ Oh, of course not. Mrs Hudson seemed rather fond of the idea, but I confiscated it.

JOHN: Then where is it now?

SHERLOCK: In a jar in the kitchen. I’m trying to extract the viscotoxins. Might come in handy one of these days.

JOHN _(slightly alarmed):_ Like when?

SHERLOCK: Mycroft’s next visit?

_Sherlock smiles down at his friend, and after a second or two, John glances up and smiles back. For a moment, we see something of an echo of that other shared smile, ten years earlier - not quite as innocent any more, nor quite as untroubled, but also not as fragile._

 

**THE END**

November 2014

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my fantastic beta reader Cooklet, to whom I am greatly indebted for everything from medical advice to helping me tweak and clarify major plot points. We spent more than a fortnight together in a virtual Cambridge, exchanging more words about this story than the actual story contains, and I'll always remember those weeks with the greatest pleasure! 
> 
> Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Three Students” has been a major inspiration for this story. The concept of Victor Trevor is, of course, from “The Gloria Scott”, while Violet Westbury was Conan Doyle’s name for Westie’s fiancee in “The Bruce-Partington Plans”. Since she became Lucy Harrison in the show, I felt free to use her original name for my own character. 
> 
> Sincere apologies to all classicists and art historians - the world needs you, no matter what some people in charge of university funding may say. But you probably know how snobbish scientists and medical doctors can get when it comes to the relative value of their own subjects compared to the Humanities. I’m afraid Sherlock and John wouldn’t be an exception. 
> 
> The college at Cambridge that I imagine to have been Sherlock’s is Clare. It has the lovely riverside location, it has a great musical tradition, and it has a safety notice on its website advising students not to climb onto the roof (it really has!). But the actual “geography” of its interior is totally a product of artistic licence on my part.
> 
> Another product of artistic licence is the idea that it's the actual tutors who submit the exam questions. In reality, it is of course an anonymous, centralised process, or else incidents like this case would be commonplace, which they fortunately aren't. 
> 
> If you liked this and are maybe wondering about the same thing that John is wondering about in the final scene, check out the sequel, [Under the Radar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3174820/chapters/6896052).


End file.
